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righted ISSo, by George Munro.— Entered at the Post Office at New Yoi-k at second class rates.— Jan. 11, 1884 






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‘ D 

I; ADRIAN BRIGHT 

I -^1 

4 ^ 


Ik 


A NOVEL. 


By MRS. CADDY. 


— ♦♦- 



NEW YORK: 

GEORGE MUNRO, PUBLISHER, 

17 TO 27 Vandewater Street. 


TO MADAME JENNY VIARD-LOUIS, 

Whose tuneful art has so often raised visions of moving figures before my 
mind’s eye, making these talk and act as fancy set to music led, while my 
thoughts involuntarily followed her fiying fingers through the airy scherzo, 
the whirling presto, or my heart echoed the plaintive, sweet andante, which 
dwells with us when mirth’s gay sallies are forgotten. 

She, whose touch has such influence as this over other minds; who, also, so 
vividly renders the great master singers’ infinitely varied poetry, is no mere 
interpreter, translator; she is herself a poet. Like our Sheridan, who shone 
in wit as brightly as in song, in eloquence with even stronger fervor, she is 
winning in playfulness as grand in dramatic power, and ardent in longing for 
the beautiful unseen. We may likewise say of her that she strikes “each 
mode of the lyre, and is master of all.” * 

With thanks for many of the finest joys, I inscribe to my friend this simple 
tale of modern feeling which she thus helped me to develop. 


ADRIAN BRIGHT 


CHAPTER 1. 

“ Well, I shall see thee again at Philippi, then.” 

“Farewell; we meet again beneath the walls of York," said 
Linda Fraser to Tante— so she called her aunt, in the German 
fashion— as they were about to part in the Raphael Gallery of the 
South Kensington Museum after a day spent in painting, and dis- 
cussing between whiles their autumn holiday tour, which they pro- 
posed to make in Yorkshire. 

“ How well that sounds,” returned Tante, as she rinsed her 
paint-biushes in the jam-pot supplied to artists by government, 
preparatory to putting by her painting. “ Quite Shakespearean. 
We meet, at Philippi, then; 1 mean York, three sennights hence. 
Adieu, love.” 

“ If you can wait a few seconds while this wash dries, Tante, 1 
will come with you now My ‘ still life ’ will keep still till next 
week, and I have some shopping to do in your quarter.” 

“To visit the shrine of SS. Marshall & Snelgrove, 1 suppose,” 
said Tante, laughing. 

Soon they went dowm-stairs. 

“ How the ‘ bobby ’ hovers round that inlaid coffer. What metal 
does he find about it so attractive?” 

Tante, by fifteen years the elder of the two ladies, merry-looking, 
stout, fair, and turned thirty-five, went to the tarsia-worked coffer 
labeled “ Please do not touch,” and peeped into it while the police- 
man was at the further end of his beat. It contained dust and a 
parcel of sandwiches. 

“ He keeps his lunch there. Ho, ho! That accounts for the 
official cultus of the Beautiful.” 

Two gushing young things— girls — both of them run to soul 
rather, with bodies comparatively undeveloped, passed by, one of 
them dressed ic school-of-art latest fashion of garments: pea-soup- 
color gown, very light in most parts where movement is required, 
baggy otherwise, and sewn into a yoke at the shoulders: sleeves 
with puffing of yellowy-green satin at the elbows and down th'e arms, 
“ looking like caterpillars wyith all their rings moving,” as Tante 
‘observed, and only rather less richly trimmed than her companion’s, 
with frills of dirty lace. In compensation, this one’s lace was of 
the richer yellow. To further adorn the construction of this well- 


4 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


thought-out garb ot old Gaul rather than of youug France, the dis- 
ciple of art wore some dark leaves of dying beet-root at her neck, 
a vast coal-scuttle bonnet of the form called Kate Greenaway, and 
a fan large enough for a lateen sail. Pier hair — a w'ealth of it, 
perhaps her chief wealth — was orange-colored, of course, to com- 
plete the symphony in amber and ruby; it was cut off (with a shil- 
ling, the price charged for hair-dressing to members of her club'l in 
front, and left entirely to nature elsewhere. The actual period when 
this costume was worn was the year of grace and beauty 1881, ther 
principles of art having changed somewhat of late mouths. Some 
think we have improved since then; another school of thought main- 
tains that we are no more beautiful than this damsel. Be this as it 
may, in 1881 she had many admirers, for since then we have seen 
her portrait multiplied on many a form of plate and pitcher, on 
music- covers, and on gigantic placards in many thoroughfares. 

But why do I dilate on this? Yonder fair heroine does not con- 
cern my story in the least. Alas! she is another’s, perhaps many 
another’s. It is my weakness that with my keen feeling for the 
beautiful 1 must stay to describe it whenevei’ met with. 1 cannot 
resist beauty, and I have an eye for the fashions, as some entliusi- 
asts possess an ear for music — and bother one with it. 

But I have a purpose in introducing to you the dark-eyed 
companion of this fair being; for, althouah she will flit but rapidl}’’ 
across this page, you will meet her later on, and I think and hope 
you will like her. 

In size this dark -haired beauty— yes, she is pretty, though not 
beautiful enough for a heroine — in height she was excelled by her 
fair friend; thinner she could not be, 'without a risk of odious com- 
parison with the skeletons kept for study in the school of art; and 
she was too well-dressed for any cast, painter’s model, or skeleton 
to compete with her for an instant.- She looked as if she had just 
W'alked from Paris into that gallery, 'udthout a hair being turned or 
a flounce awry. This duodecimo Venus, height four feet ten in 
her new boots, those ■v\dth the ornament heels, wmre a costume of 
the Soho Bazaar paper-model type, so scanty that it seemed to have 
been made out of a “ remnant,” but the lack of quantity here was 
amply atoned for by the dress being trimmed with as much lace 
frilling as possible, and as valuable as could be had for the money. 
Jtw’as an alarming sacrifice on duodecimo Venus’s part of three 
and ninepence three farthings; but then the shop circular declared 
it to be worth five and elevenpence halfpenny, by which it "will be 
understood that she was a woman of business who had her penny- 
worth for her three farthings. 

These nymphs were standing like a fashion-plate in the middle 
distance, looking about them. 

” If I were that girl, and had to dress upon an allow^ance as tight 
as my gown,” said Tante, laughing, “I w'ould wear less of that 
valuable lace.” 

‘‘It is only the new point antique,” said her niece, who took 
most things literally. 

” Point antique at twopence three farthings the yard, dipped into' 
the dye- vat appropriate to its age and the style of its pattern.” 

” How do you appraise it?” asked the younger lady, whose tall, 


ADRIAN DREG LIT. 


0 


commanclini; figure seemed to hold her dark-eyed, handsome face 
and somewhat scornful lips above fun and frivolous chat. 

“ 1 have paid for it for my girls in my time, and I know you can 
have your lace dipped to a century —two or three hundred years 
old tint, according to the date required by the costume— the extra 
odd years are usually added by the wearer.” 

‘‘ The wearer is usually a fool,” said j\liss Fraser, who spoke her 
mind, regardless of damages. 

“ Hush, she will hear you.” 

The nymphs w'ere almost in the foreground now, and Tante 
would not knowingly have hurt the feelings of a worm. 

” Food for thought will fatten her mind; it wants nourishment 
if it is as lean as her body. But come now, Tante, if you are 
ready,” and they made for the way out of the museum. 

The eyes of the maidens followed J^inda admiringly, perhaps en- 
viously — yet no, that size would have cost so much more to dress. 

The little person in the tight gowm suddenlj' darted after them. 

” I thought I was right. It is you.” 

” Certainly it is,” said Tante, not taken aback, but still not quite 
knowing who w’as who; then, scanning the stranger more closely, 
“ and you are Daisy Flitters?” 

” Of course 1 am. Day Flitters just come back from Germany, 
and freshest from Paris. 1 was just coming to see you and tell you 
all about ISaffo.” 

“ Come and tell me all about her and yourself this very evening. 
1 shall he at home in less than an hour. We shall all be so glad to 
see you.” 

” revoir, then, for an hour,” and little Miss Flitters fluttered 
back to her friend and the fine arts. 

” This shows the evil of rash judgment,” said Tante, to her niece. 
Miss Fraser, ‘‘ for Little Flitters is not at all narrow-minded.” 

l.iuda Fraser looked at Little Flilters’s retiring figure in a critical 
way which seemed to opine that her chief charm was having lately 
seen Saffo, her aunt’s eldest daughter, at her educational estab- 
lishment in Paris. 

Little Flitters w'as a school-friend of the aforesaid Saffo when 
they were both studying music in Berlin, under the direction of the 
celebrated Herr Grolleuicht; but Saffo had been sent since then to 
Paris to round, as it were, her education, while Litt’e Flitters stayed 
at Berlin to be ground and polished off for the musical profession 
under Herr Grolleuicht. In passing through Paris on her way 
home Miss Flitters had gone to see her friend Saffo, and patronize 
her, and ” take her out for a treat,” a thing to chronicle, to enjoy 
and remember forever; but with wdiich w’e likewise have very 
little to do. 

The aunt and niece now' left the museum, talking, as before, of 
thsir projected holiday trip. 

Linda Fraser was going to stay three weeks with some stylish 
cousins at Leeds; besides which, she had other reasons for wishing 
her aunt to join her in Yorkshire, and so prolong her own holiday, 
that she did not care to mention, but used, instead of other persua- 
sions, the commonphice argument about the duty of knowing 
one’s own country. 


t- 

If 


6 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


“ All, yes, 1 Lave beard all that,” said Tante, laughing again, 
“ and you have coaxed me into giving up my foreign trip, though, 
after all, a real change does one most good ; a change of the language 
and manners, of the look and taste of everything. Working people 
like mvself care more for health and amusement than for studying 
our sniall bit of home geography thoroughly.” 

“ Tliere is a good deal of difference in the manners, Tante, and 1 
have lived a whole fortnight in Yorkshire, and 1 can’t speak the 
language perfectly yet,” 

“Astonishing! and yet you are a clever woman. Well, 1 will 
not be guilty of breach of promise. Hey for Yorkshire! This is 
my boot-maker’s; w'ill you come in?” 

“ They’re a beautiful boot, ma’am,” said the shoemaker, caress- 
ing the upper leather of the Alpine boots as he tried them on his 
customer, “ You’ll never see better hoppers than them.” 

“ Good heavens! does the man think I want to hop? With my 
weight, too!” 

“He means the upper part of the boots,” said the ” literal ” 
niece, in a return whisper; “ j^ou see ‘closed uppers ’ advertised 
sometimes.” 

“ Whipcord laces, only twenty-four shillings the pair, ma’am.” 

The price of the laces included that of the boots, though this was 
not at once obvious. 

“ Where shall we have the pleasure of sending them?” 

“Mrs. Bright, 82 Welbeck Street.” 

And three sennights thence they met; ’twas in a crowd, at King’s 
Cross terminus, and not at Philippi, nor beneath the walls of York. 

So much for well-laid plans, and so little does it matter about 
preliminaries, pourparlers for preliminaries, over which we waste 
such worlds of time, talk, law-learning, and red tape, and we do 
so bother our stars and garters, and the attaches, as if circumstances 
would not arrange themselves in their own way after all. 

Linda Fraser’s stylish cousins at Leeds were going from home to 
Ilkley Wells, and thence to Scarborough, and had invited her to 
join them in the trip. Mrs. Bright recommended her to go, in 
order to perfect herself in the language, of which she had learned 
a smattering when she once in her life enjoyed a fortnight of walk- 
ing to and fro on the esplanade at Whitby with her genteel relatives, 
a pleasure which had well-nigh cured her of loving her native 
country, had she not caught a glimpse of moorland glory at Pickering 
and thereabout. So instead of vowing an annual migration, and 
joining the tweed-and-knapsack army, she merely took a pledge to 
avoid all esplanades, grand parades, promenades, marinas, and 
other ups-and-downs of fashionable life. 

It was the St. Leger day, and the sterner sex looked unusually 
forbidding as they leaned out of the windows of smoking carriages, 
which mainly composed the train, defending the comfort of the 
travelers tucked up to enjoy the Sporting Tirnes over their cigars. 

Our friends embraced with effusion on meeting, though they had 
seen each other several tinies within the last three weeks, for Linda 
had, after all, fought. shy of Ilkley Wells, Scarborough, and the 
esplanades, and preferred to go northward with her aunt, the artist. 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


7 

The \varmth of their greeting was a cheerful &igbt to the sporting 
gentry assembled on the platform, who were thus reminded of the 
golden age. Many of them doubled their bets on the spot, though 
perhaps the fresh newspapers caused them to do that; others took 
the odds that the friends would quarrel dVouirance before the jour- 
ney’s end. The ladies looked for a carriage. 

“ There is no third class by this 'ere train, mum,” said a porter, 
obligingly. 

” That is more your affair than mine,” said Mrs. Bright, good- 
humoredly. ‘‘I’m not a railway director;” and she lifted her 
haversack into the only empty carriage. 

Lir.da Fraser colored with displeasure, and held her head more 
haughtily than ever. Why should the man suppose they wanted 
to travel third class? Her own traveling dress and equipments were 
faultless; nothing could be more like a lady, and a lady wbo ought 
to be kowtowed to. Then it must be her aunt, who, with her quick, 
self-ministering ways, and useful dress, adapted for roughing it, 
looked like a person who did not expect to be waited upon. Mrs. 
Bright carried her sketching materials herself, and had no great 
paraphernalia, differing therein from Linda, who had much and of 
the newest sort. 

” So we are fairly on our way, and without any more definite 
idea than that we are to spend some weeks and some money in York- 
shire,” said Tante, when seated with her niece in the train. ” Now 
tell me where we are going?” 

They had taken their tickets to York, merely as a preliminary, 
and, of course, not intended to decide anything. 

This was a puzzling question, for Yorkshire is a wide county, 
and, without being a practiced Cook’s tourist, it is impossible to 
examine everything it contains in one holiday tour of reasonable 
lengtl), and it is not easy to decide upon the sacrifices one will 
make. Although Linda would have liked to wander through any 
part of the county with Adrian Bright, the rising young sculptor, 
Mrs, Bright’s nephew, and a very handsome young man, who was 
known to be making his holiday wanderings in Yorkshire, Mrs. 
Bright’s niece did not like to ask Tante— his Tante and hers — where 
Adrian would be likely to wander. Mrs. Bright had not troubled 
herself with such likelihoods, ple^isant though Adrian was to her; for 
he was but a nephew, her husband’s nephew, and she had all her 
own boys and girls to think of and care for. So Tante never men- 
tioned Adrian, and Linda pinched her lips close and tried to seem 
not to know of his journey noithwaid; but she was vexed, for it ap- 
peared she might as well have stayed at home for all the good 
traveling in Yoikshire was likely to do her. 

1 mean to set my foot on Ingleborough top,” said Tante, look- 
ing up from Black’s ” Guide.” in which she had been as much ab- 
sorhed as Linda in lier reflections. ‘‘You seem to long for the flesh- 
pots of Whitby”— Linda shook her head — ‘‘ but some names I have 
looked out here sound quite as luxurious. King’s Pot and Caldron 
Snout, for instance, and the name of Kettlewell as a center for our 
excursions, suggests warmth, comfort, and hot muffins.” 

“Let us make the round of the abbeys,” said Linda, thinking of 
what a sculptor was most likely to care for. 


8 


ADIUAX F.RTOHT. 


“ Then we had better take the train to Leeds for Kirkstall Ab- 
bey/’ 

“ No, my cousins live at Leeds, and if we go there I must go and 
see them.” 

After a fresh investigation of the book Tante said, 

” Suppose we decide on going to Snaresbrook for the abbeys, 
Fountains, and Bolton, and then hey for Keltlewell and Great 
AViiernside, and see if we can scramble across country to Richmond 
and Rokeby.” 

Linda preferred leaving their plans to chance, but Tante wished 
to give a clew to her family that she might have her letters sent on, 
and know the trials her family underwent in her absence. This 
would possibly be a comfort. 

At length they found themselves beneath the walls of York, and, 
as travelers so often do, they gave up the bird in hand for the sake 
of the possible two in the bush, and onh" treating York Minster as 
luncheon, proposed to dine oft scenery and castles at Snaresbrook. 
Here they put up at the AVhite Rose, and after Linda had im- 
burdened'her mind and hands of her luggage she wandered out with 
Tante, whose fancy was free from disappointment, and whose lug- 
gage was no impediment, leaving lier therefore in a condition to ftnd 
interest in even a stupid little town, whose clear air indeed made its 
beauties visible to the city smoke-dimmed eye. She stopped to 
sketch while Linda sauntered discontentedly on ” doun a big hill,” 
as directed by a native standing at ease behind his door-post, to a 
spot which all guide-books proclaim one ought (o see and enjoy. 

An avenue of beech-trees makes a promising approach to this 
haunt of the Sibylla Eboracensis, for it is no less, where a petrify- 
ing spring of the stoniest properties flows, enshrined in a fern-grown 
cave. To a mind In tune witli tradition there is no reason why 
Mother Shipton’s grotto should be less interesting than that of the 
Cumaean prophetess. In appearance it is at least equally romantic; 
but on opening a postern gate the sixpenny worth of sight-seeing dis 
closed did not seem to Linda Fraser to be worth more than sixpence, 
much less her whk^ ” doun the big hill” and up it again. 

A liand-made stalactite basin is arranged above a grotto of ferns 
so as to allow a veil, or fringe of water to fall into a natural basin 
beneath. All manner of queer thinjrs are hung in the spray to 
petrify, a process which takes about a year, and then they are 
brought out for sale and exhibition in the museum of the inn. Such 
curiosities as a stocking, a glove, a bird’s nest, a badger, a raven, 
a branch of fir, etc., are among the petrifactions; and two hats, a 
” bell-topper” and a ” billy-cock,” that have been left hanging out 
too long to wet, are firmly imbedded in the stalactite, and "now 
look only like strange excrescences. The last object there hung 
was a walking-stick, and it was only just damped by the spray. 
Had Linda known that Adrian Bright had that very afternoon hung 
the slender hedge sapling in that very place, she would hare lookf^d 
at it with more interest. But the English sibyl, whose home is 
there, can only prophesy futurity, and know^s or betrays nothing ot 
what is going on under people’s noses. 

It was a case where ignoiance was not bliss, for Linda returned 
gloomily enough to put Tante out of conceit with her point of view, 


ADKIAK imiGHT. 


9 


and to drag her back to the inn, railing against the dullness of York- 
shire towns. Mother Shipton never whispered that, though (he 
streets were entirely empty now, the one who was all the world to 
her might have been whispering to her had she not loitered over 
her luggage. 

As they passed by the castle ruins Tantc was for exploring them, 
but the girl combated any suggestion that did not emanate from her 
own ill-temper. For the beautiful Linda was cross, lovely and 
large-minded though she knew herself to be; still, she was cross as 
any housemaid who misses a valentine, a child whose birthday is a 
failure, or the letter X. 

“ 1 stood for a few moments in the sibjd’s cave of these parts,” 
said Linda, disparagingly, ” the great Mother Shipton, and only felt 
inspired to get*out again.” 

” HarkI that is certainly music,” said Tante, stopping to listen. 
She had been enjoying a faint murmur of distant song for some 
time, so distant as to make it uncertain whether it were song, or an 
/Eolian harp, or the sighing of the wind under the lofty bridge. 
” How sweet it sounds as it echoes among the castle walls. Now 
it has ceased.” 

” How fanciful you are to-day, Tante; it is but the lonely owl 
complaining that most likely there will be no moon.” 

” 1 dreamed a sweet dream, I suppose,” said Tante, wdth a half- 
sigh, as she gave up listening for dumb echoes; ” but it is not al- 
ways good to be thrown out of an illusion.” 

They^ sat a little longer to enjoy the glow of late afternoon sun- 
light upon the lofty banks overhariging the river, with the railway- 
bridge reflected in deep shadow upon the water, before returning to 
the White Rose to muffins, tea, and slippers. 

A deep study of maps and Bradshaw had left them in extreme 
doubt as to where they might be at that time to-morrow, and they 
were lolling in easy-chairs by candle-light, immersed in time-tables 
and with maps outspread, Tante incidentally examining her sketch, 
when the door opened and as speedily shut with a rapid *“ I beg 
your pardon” from a man’s voice. 

La suite k un prochain numero. 


CHAPTER 11. 

“ Hail to thee, blithe spirit/ 

Bird thou never wert, 

That from heaven, or near it, 

Pourest thy full heart 
lu profuse strains of unpremeditated art.” 

Shelley, 

Where, meanwhile, was Adrian Bright? 

He had fallen in with an elect body of the Archaeologi<!al Society, 
now rushing through the Ridings in the convoy of their fostering 
professor, besieging abbeys and storming castles; and Adrian passed 
through the open door of Snaresbrook Castle in the orbit of the 
scientific world. 

A controversj* raged as to the date of the different parts of the 
building. Saxon and Norman (theorist) fought furiously, disputing 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


10 

every inch of the masonry, and the old dungeons re-echoed bowl- 
ings and asseverations to which they had long been strangers. The 
strife was unusually long and warm, and some of the younger mem- 
bers of the party, who cared more for superficies than for science, 
8 tra 3 ^ed oflf in search of bits of decorated Gothic and other solvable 
questions. 

Adrian Bright was one of these; he ascended from the dungeon 
to tiie oratory or chapel of the castle, where there was just light 
enotigh through the open door for him to perceive its round-vaulted 
roof and massive pillars, doubtfully Saxon and positively Norman 
enough to make its nave a battle-field. The windows had long 
since been built up with masonry, and scarcely a vestige remained 
of its formerly consecrated condition. A bat, hanging by its feet 
in an angle of the wall, attracted his notice, and while he was scru- 
tinizing the curious and wizened featmxjs of the animal, and making 
memoranda of the structure of its wings for professional use, he 
did not remark that the droning voice of the lecturer had ceased, 
the busy hum of commentators subsided, and the antiquarian party 
had quitted the castle, until the closing door left him in total dark- 
ness. 

He called “Hallo!” but the clamor outside prevented his voice 
being audible as the party moved rapidly off, having so much to 
learn and squabble about, and the outer door of the guard-room also 
clanged and closed. Adrian hung up the bat by its left foot, Achil- 
les-like, as before. The creature slept soundly, hanging by its feet, 
as if quite used to being looked at and put to bed in this way, and 
Adrian made for the door, against which he kicked and hammered. 
But the old man in charge of the keys was stone deaf, and he was 
hobbling away after the party now bent on visiting ISt. Beolwulph’s 
Chapel, on the further side of the river. 

“ Here am I like a rat in a trap; [ must roam about and hunt for 
an outlet.” He groped round and round the walls and pillars and 
wandered out into a corridor, but all was dark and shuttered. “ 1 
had better be nesr the door in any case, that is evidently the one 
way out; and 1 have a dim notion that the dreary man told us the 
area of tlie castle was two and a half acres, and one might drop 
into an oubliette or some other form of dungeon easily wdiile making 
an excursion by one’s self.” 

His bump of locality w^as decided enough to guide him back again 
to the chapel. The walls felt cold and moist, and drops of damp 
exuded from the roof. The situation was not heroic, nor pleasant 
in prospect He fruitlessly picked at the lock with his pocket-knife, 
he climbed, he failed, he sliouted, he fumed, and nearly swore— 
well-nigh, I say, for just as the oath was hovering on his lips he 
heard a sound, a thrilling sound — a voice in song! 

“ Angels and ministers of grace,” he breathed, “surely a bird; 
no, a woman’s voice!” 

It neared, it cleared; at once the feeling of warmth, light, com- 
panionship, and all their blessed belongings, invested the dismal, 
clammy wills. Words had become distinct. “Hark! hark! the 
lark at heaven’s gale sings.” It was as if a spirit said, “ Let there 
be light!” 

Adrian did not stir; he was spell-bound in wonder and admira- 


ADRIAN- BRIGHT. 


11 

tlon. Tlie soiii; ceased, the singer had come into the very room 
where he stood, and the song, dying tremulously away, gave place 
to words, but the speech w^as as melodious as the song. Adrian’s 
knight-errantry was aroused. The broken sentences proclaimed a 
woman, probably a girl, in distress; and silver tones, such as Sarah 
Bernhardt’s when she utters the pathos, fear, and courage of An- 
dromache, fell on the charmed ear of the young sculptor, wdio at 
once, and trul}’’, imagined her plight to be the same as his own. It 
was a girl’s voice, presumably, and she had evidently courage, pres- 
ence of mind, and resource; but, if the situation w^as painful for 
Adrian, what must it be to one so much weaker than a man. He, 
for Ids part, did not kuorv what to do; he feared the sound of his 
voice might terrify si ill more her palpably agitated nerves: and yet 
speak he must, for an accidental touch might startle her to frenzy, 
and in their mutual blind groping how soon might not their hands 
meet? lie felt the immediate necessily for speech; and yet so 
strongly had the unexpected sound acted upon his own impressiona- 
ble sensitiveness that he still stood as if tongue-tied when he would 
have given worlds for utterance, for the stranger’s sake. How 
often, when words would most avail, one is dumb, as in a trance 
one might be buried dumbl.y sentient: when feeling is most passion- 
ate one has least power to act; one is, and suffers, but one cannot 
do. 

Weak though his speech was, when it came it was only spoken 
by a vlolenl effort. 

“ Your voice gives cheering to a prisoner,” he said at length, soft- 
ening his voice as much as he could, though to himself it sounded 
as a burst. The hearer seemed startled, but there was no shriek, as 
Adrian half expected. 

‘‘ Who are you?” she asked, quickly. “ Are you one of the ex- 
ploring party? Have you been shut in like me?” 

“Yes; 1 did not see them go, and the door was locked too soon 
for me to escape. I am glad of it now.” 

“ And so am 1, though it is selfish to say so.” 

“ Perhaps together we may devise a way of escape. But how 
could you have the courage to sing?” 

“ I thought that, as one’s voice is louder and more likely to be 
heard in singing than in screaming, perhaps some one outside might 
hear me.” 

“ Shall wo try a duet?” 

Adrian’s spirits were growing lighter every minute. 

“Oh, no! 1 could not sing now. Is it possible to break open 
the door?” 

“ Alas, I have broken my knife and 1 have not even a stick for a 
tool; and I have felt the walls all round, and thumped the door 
until 1 know it impracticable to make any one hear. Before 1 heard 
your voice, I was near cursing my foolish inattention in letting my- 
self be locked up here. How came you to be left behind?” 

“ I came with Professor Skinflint and his wife, and while she was 
busy digging up specimens the slow voice of the professor sent me 
otf into a romantic dream— I have such sometimes— and then I lost 
myself.” Adrian was interested. “I have followed 'all those gal- 
leries searching for an outlet,” she added, disconsolately, “ but there 


n 


ABUIAX BRIGHT. 


is none ” After a pause she said, “ 1 remember tlie lecturer point- 
ing out a small window-hole to the right naar the top of the great 
door. He tried to be funny about the lady of the castle peeping 
into the chapel to see when to dish up the dinner, and having an 
eye on the maids and the mess at home while she was at mass. ‘ La 
grande messe' he explained it. The bolt of the shutter would be 
easily drawn, and the guard-room door can be opened from the in- 
side. Do you think it would be possible for you to climb up to it?” 

” What presence of mind she has,” thought Adrian. 

He felt and tried, and tried in vain. 

” I cannot find the loophole.” 

” 1 could find it if 1 could but reach it, for I took notice of the 
opening.” 

Adrian collected some stones and the debris oi Mrs. Skinflint’s ex- 
cavations for her to stand on, but this was ineffectual. 

” Would you mind my lifting you up to try?” said Adrian, falter- 
ingly. 

She hesitated ; but their necessity rose above ideas of awkward- 
ness, The man was a stranger, certainly, but his speech and man- 
ner were those of a gentleman, and he might be old enough to be 
her grandfather, though she did not think he was so. It seemed ab- 
surd, because no formal introduction had taken place, to refuse to 
do an act needful for their comfort and health, perhaps for their 
very lives; for days, or even weeks, might elapse before another 
party would visit the castle, which scarcely ranks with the regular 
county sights. The occasion was sufficiently peculiar to make 
prudery ill-timed. 

So she let him lift her up at the spot beneath which she calculated 
the aperture to be, but still she was not high enough to reach the 
hole. 

” Stand on my shoulder, 1 will not let you fall.” 

She did so, and speedily found the opening. 

” Try to raise me two inches higher, then I can climb upon the 
sill and reach the bolt. There, it isopen; 1 can jump down and 
you will soon be released.” 

” Be careful how you jump down,” said Adrian, anxiously, ” it 
is high.” 

” Never fear, I practiced gymnastics at school.” 

She sprang down, but twisted her ankle severely in the fall. A 
faint cry escaped her. 

” Are you safe, are you hurt?” 

It was dreadful not to be able to help her. Adrian chafed terribly. 

” All right,” she replied faintly, and she limped across the guard- 
room and opened the great door, letting a streak of dim light fall on 
Adrian’s prison through the displaced shutter of the aperture. ” 1 
am outside,” she called back as cheerily as she could. ” 1 will send 
the man with the key.” 

Who could she be, what was she like? Young, of coarse, fair 
most likely, graceful undoubtedly. Adrian was a student of form, 
and beseemed still to feel her light figure in his arms, beyond which 
the music of her sweet voice still lingered on his ear, and an hour 
passed unnoticed as he recalled every word and its silver tone. lie 


A DIM AX r.lM caiT. 


13 


longed to see her!— oli, how he longed! — as hy and by impatience 
toot the place of memory's pleasure. The minutes now seemed long 
to Adrian, as he measured them by the dimming of the streak of 
gloom above his head, only now to be recognized as twilight by its 
faint difference in gradation to the blackness of the rest of the vault. 
No wonder that time was slow to him there alone in the dark when 
he was so eairer to see his late companion. How was he to know 
that the poor girl (he was right, she was a girl, a young, fair girl) 
had to limp along slowly, in severe paiu, while he remained im- 
prisoned in ignorance and double darkness, with the prospect of 
being ignominiously let out like a hare from a springe. 

He puzzled himself to account for the time, which lengthened 
and lengthened. What could have happened to thwart the accom- 
plishment of her promise V The chapel grew colder and more dark, 
the drops from the vaulted roof fell upon his cheek and neck, and 
stiffened there; he rubbed them off and felt miserable and forgotten, 
his only comfort being faith in his fellow-captive, faith against all 
appearance, faith mingled with fear for her. 

The lime-charged drops fell one by one on the head of the prison 
er, dodge them as he would. 

“ 1 shall soon petrify here. 1 shall become a statue myself soon 
—a wmrthy end for a sculptor. T may be dug out by some Pyg- 
malion when I am clogged to the queerness of the billy-cock in tlie 
grotto.” 

The door creaked and opened. He looked round with eyes 
attuned to the dim twilight of the guard room, and saw no one but 
the old crone, the wife of the deaf custodian of the ruins, and a lit- 
tle ragged boy and girl peeping in at the outer door. In his disap- 
pointment, he well-nigh forgot to thank the old woman for his de- 
liverance. 


CHAPTER III. 

“ Que diable alltit-elle faire daus cette galdre?” 

Fortunately for the young girl who had just leaped down a 
ten-foot wall, she had not to make her painful way on foot as far 
as the hotel in order to send the man with the key to the prisoner’s 
relief; for she had limped scarcely a quarter of the weary road 
v/hen she met a carriage, and the lady sealed In it was her own 
mother. The lame girl had to be lifted in. 

” Hermioiie, you have given me a terrible fright.” 

” 1 got shut in the ruins, mamma, and have sprained my ankle in 
getting out.” 

” The Skinflints missed you, but they thought you were tired of 
the lecture, and had come to me at the hotel. 1 w^as in agonies; I 
dared not say I had not seen you, because the smallest accident is 
magnified into a marvel by likely gossip, and 1 w'ould not have you 
the heroine of an adventure for the world.” 

Hermione wondered how her mother would bear the recital she 
had to make. 

” Are you well enough to return with me t«) llkley Wells by this 
train?” Mrs. Nugent asked this an.xiously, for her daughter had 


u 


A DUX AX BRIGHT. 


turned very white with pain, agitation, and fear of the result of her 
disclosure of the whole fact. “ 1 sincerely trust you are so, for a 
girl must never get talked about, and 1 will not have it known th^t 
you were lost at all.” 

“ 1 am quite able to do it, mamma; but I must see my fellow- 
prisoner freed first.” 

” Your fellow-prisoner! Hermione, are you mad?” The mother 
would have shrieked, but for fear of the man on the box hearing 
her cry. “ Who is it? I insist upon knowing.” 

” I do not know mj'^self, mamma, more than that it is a mao, 
and, I believe, a gentleman.” 

” To think of such a thing happening to my daughter, after all 
my care! 1 will not let you have anything more to do with the 
ruins; come with me to the train at once.” 

” Mamma, I have given my word; 1 must have the castle door 
opened for this— gentleman.” 

” It is no affair of yours at all, Hermione, and 1 will not let you 
make yourself the talk of llkley Wells.” 

But the girl was firm, and, as Mrs. Nugent had proved long ago 
that in things of importance she must give way to her husband, Her- 
mione’s dead father, so now she found herself compelled to drive 
across the bridge to St. Beolwulph’s Chapel, and give the necessary 
orders to the keeper of the ruins for the captive’s liberation, and 
greatly to her ease of mind, they were still in time for the train. 

Hermione would have liked to stay and see her acquaintance set 
free, but she yielded this point with a good grace; and not until she 
satpvaiting at the station, and had time to ponder on the circumstances 
had she any misgiving as to the speedy release of the prisoner. A 
couple of ragllijed children were at play near the doorstep of the 
station, within view of the waiting-room, and while Mrs. Nugent 
was getting the tickets, Hermione beckoned them to her, and offered 
them a shilling each to buy cakes with, provided they would go and 
remind the custodian of the man locked up in the castle: explaining 
to them how dreadful it must be to b^ locked up in the dark all 
night. Her sweet voice touched their feelings, and the sympathiz- 
ing eyes of the children told her she might trust them. 

Jt was lucky that she took this precaution, for the deaf old sexton 
liad only partially understood Mrs. Nugent’s directions; and when 
Ihe}'^ were repeated by his grumbling wife he felt too disinclined to 
drag his old limbs again up that weary hill to serve a man who 
” had no business to be there a trespassin’,” so that he did his 
best to forget all about it, and would have succeeded had not the 
sharp-witted children threatened to inform the constable of his 
keeping somebody shut up there all night, when he angrily took 
down the keys and aroused his wife from her. comfortable* tea to 
go and unlock the door of the castle. 

Hermione did not appear at dinner at the Wells that evening, but 
the whole of the archaeological party assembled at the table- d'lwte 
knew that Miss Nugent had hurt her foot by slipping on a door- 
step at Snaresbrook Castle, and had returned early with her mother 
to llkley. So the young man wdio made the puns, and made fun 
of everybody at the hotel, lost the opportunity of wondering how 
the deuce IMiss Nugent ^ot into that fix? 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


15 


CHAPTER IV. 

“ What tho^i art, we know not; 

What is' most like thee? 

From rainbow clouds there flow not 
» Drops so brijrht to see, 

As from thy presence sRowersa rain of melody.” 

Shelley. 

Who is Adrian? What is he? A sculptor, we know— but has 
he a grandfather— and if not, why not? Because his father and 
uncle, Joseph and Joshua Bright, are the sons of a man who made 
money in business. Only a cjmfortable sum, not enough to make 
it worth while to talk about the matter at all; and therefore, tD all 
but his two sons, Jo and Jos, to whom the sum is really a comfort, 
it is as if the man in business had never existed, ergo, Adrian 
Bright had no grandfather. But it concerns us to know something 
of Jo and Jos Bright, because, although they are both oddities in 
their several ways, they are talented men, who would have been of 
mark had not their talent been misguided into eccentricity, as 
talent sometimes is, perhaps as often bj’’ over-culture as by neglect. 
Prudent and loving parents frequently over-school their children; 
tuition often loses sight of intuition, cannot recognize it, and so we 
lose a faculty. 

Joshua Bright is husband of Lucinda, Mistress Bright (alias 
Tante, and nee Fraser), and father of a baker’s dozen of "children; 
Joseph Bright is a widower, and father of Adrian. Joshua fritters 
away his talents upon all manner of crude scheiiies. The world 
thinks Joseph wiser, and says helms given all his share of talent 
intact to his son, the sculptor, Adrian Bright. The baker’s dozen 
of children are all more or less clever; of course, they are cygnets 
of rarest breed in the eyes of the parent swans; black and ugly 
ducklings, as viewed by the unbiased eyes of strangers to natural 
history and this young brood; but Adrian is a fowl of another 
feather; he is a universally recognized genius, and of the first order, 
lie has chosen sculpture as his development, and has already gained 
and used the “ Prize of Rome ’’—the traveling studentship. 

He makes the marble live. Clay, too. in his hands becomes flesh, 
and perfect form of grace, a creature full of power; and he looks 
up with triumph and praise, in the daily renewed joy of knowing 
that he is a poet, in the sense of being a maker; and that, as a ere 
ator, he can comprehend the beAuty, so fearful and wonderful, of 
the great Creation. At such moments he is all fire and air. 

Personally, he is of fine, lithe form; strong in blow, tender in 
touch; witli hazel eyes, and warm, brown hair, and beard, rich, 
full, and curling, yet not long. In his sculptor’s cap and blouse 
he is his own best model; his every action has a grace, his look a 
brightness all his own. Light seems to radiate about him, his nat- 
ure is so joyous, his industry so congenial, his strength so self-con- 
tained; it seems as if no cloud of disappointment could ever over- 
shadow him, as he finely conceives and perfectly carries out his 
own conceptions; things of beauty— joys forever. 


16 


ADKIAK JUllUHT, 


nis wants are few; plain food and simple garments, water, sun- 
light, and a lump of moist clay suffice him for his life, and these 
he has without a care; how then should he be less than happy? 

Even when captive in a ruined castle he is not utterly sel^ahau- 
doned, but considers how ho should model a figure in such a 
plight, and his idea has a serious pathos under its biitfo grace. His 
own attitudes always express his feeJings, even when these seem 
complex beyond a sculptor’s power. Adrian w^as a rare panto- 
niimist, and he cultivated his gift of rendering expression by attitude 
purposely, constitutionally, and as an aid to his studies. His Ro- 
man life had perfected this accomplishment. He said he coulil not 
fancy the Greeks standing stolidly by Phidias’s side, demonstrating 
nothing by their gesture; and he thought it was carrying art con- 
cealment too far when it stifled Nature as well as Art. He did not 
shrink from the difficulty of expressing complex emotion, but rather 
courted it, and sought among tlie dumb, and among the noisy rab- 
ble, the guiding laws by which the twm hands express the dual 
movement of the mind. It was these and cognate studies which 
gave such life and realism to his sculpture.- 

It w’as Adrian wdio opened and shut so suddenly the door of 
Tante’s sitting-room at the White Rose at Snaresbrook. 

“ Adrian! Adrian!” cried Tante, and ran to the door as she rec- 
ognized her nephew, wffio had accidentally opened their door by 
mistake on his way to his own room. ” Here is Adrian, I declare.” 
A wmnderful gleam of pleasure broke over Linda’s handsome face^ 
but she spoke no welcome. ” What is the matter, Adrian? you 
appear bewitched and all astray,” said Tante, with concern, as she 
drew him in; for she thought the boy looked ill. ” Have you seen 
a ghost?” 

“ Ro, Tante, but 1 have heard a voice, and a voice that must 
haunt me, or lead me in chase until found. It lives; I have not 
seen it, yet I have held it in my arms, and 1 shall hold it to my 
heart forever.” 

” Good heavens! the boy is crazed. ‘ Not seen ’ a voice? that is 
natural enough; voices are not made to be looked at; but ‘ held it in 
your arms,’ what can you mean? AVas your voice a solid, and did 
it belong to anybody else?” 

“ Laugh, if you will, Tante; you are one of the few people 1 can 
forgive for laughing.” 

Linda stood watching her cousin (in law) closely, though he was 
too absorbed to notice her beyond the first greetings. 

Oh, Tante, it was the loveliest voice that ever thrilled througli 
mortal man.” 

” Male or female? Bird or beast? Talking, singing, preaching, 
swearing?” 

‘‘Tante, Tante, were you other than Tante 1 should slay you. 
None of all these,” he said, rhapsodically. ” It was a woman, it 
must have been a woman, for .she had no wings, otherwise I should 
have known it for an angel. But such a voice; sweet in speech, 
divine in song. Can you imagine a nightingale using words, or the 
skylark putting her gush of knowledge into poetry, and both keep- 
ing their own exquisite modulation and vibration? 1 can fancy Per- 
uiani might sing like this now she is juingled with the stars,”* 


ADlilAN BKIGHT. 


17 


“The hoy raves.” He did, indeed, look excited, though pale; 
and Linda, while she acknowledged him handsomer than ever, and 
she always held him god-1 ike, felt a sharp stab of jealousy at his 
hunger for this unknown, unseen ghost. 

‘Fine voices are not uncommon,” said Linda, while her own 
tones, as she endeavored to modulate them with extra care, sounded 
affected, and they grated on Adrian’s ear; “ though their utterances 
are not alway's valuable. My cousin who lives at Leeds has a re- 
markably sweet voice, and one much like what you describe, if your 
words were translated into plain English; for your Idescripliou 
needs a Delian diver to bring its treasures fo light.” 

“ Then that gift runs in your family, Linda,” said Adrian, mak- 
ing the compliment cover his indignation at the idea of comparing 
his angel with a cousin at Leeds. 

“ \es, your own is a very fine voice, Linda,” saidTante, good- 
natured I3'. 

“ Why should this shadow come between us?” thought Linda 
with vexation, as she observed Adrian’s unwonted absence of mind. 
Linda, this dark, handseme, haughty woman, tiiis clever and prac- 
ticed artist, had all the qualities for help, companionship, ana con- 
trast with the gay and gifted Adrian Bright, on whom mechanical 
dexterity hung like an easy robe, beneath which the artist’s self 
moved and breathed spontaneously, making, as it were, himself his 
masterpiece. Such fervor emanated from himself that his studio, 
when he was in it, seemed crowded with living forms. When he 
was absent, these beautiful figures, if we may so speak, slept. Now 
he looked up with an expression such as Joan of Arc might have 
w^orn after commune with her Voices. 

Tante also noticed his absorption, and attributed it to headache. 
She pressed him to take some brandy and soda. 

” Soda is low Latin for headache, so your uncle says, and 1 can 
recommend it on the principle that like cures like,” 

“ I will act upon your prescription, Tante,” and Adrian rose fo 
take leave. “ Good-night. Do you make any stay at Snaresbrook.” 

“ No, we are making for the abbeys. Will you come with us?” 

“ Not just now, thank you. 1 must travel alone in search of my 
Voice. 1 might have to rush off at a moment’s notice.” 

“ Well, we are free as the clouds; our way might be yours, for 
that matter.” Linda blessed her aunt for ll^f^ words. 

“ No, I will not spoil your fun. I dare say I shall meet ymu again. 
You will pick me up at Bolton Abbey, or somewhere, doubtless. 
1 shall hunt up the dreary professor and study^ archaeology— it will 
steady me. Besides, 1 may there learn something about my Voice. 
It was visible in the cheering society of Professor Skinflint before 
I joined ti)at learned body. "Perhaps its sweet tradition lingers yet 
among them; or perhaps the professor can unravel this mystery as 
well as those whose solution is based on more fragmentary data.” 
He tried to talk lightly, but it was wdth an etTort. 

“Good-by, then,” said Tante, laughing; “our study of our own 
future has landed us in the foggy uncertainty which is the general 
result of research.” 

Linda was both vexed and angry at this decision of the young 
ninn, Tt was hard to tind him, only to lose him immediately. Still, 


18 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


tlieir way was clearer than it had been all this long, uncomfortable 
day. They had a clew to his movements, at any rate; for the ex* 
plorations of the arclneologists were chronicled in every newspaper; 
and Linda hoped that, his romantic fervor over, he would find the 
men of science dull and the women dowdy, and be glad to Join the 
livelier company of his aunt and— well, she would call it cousin. 
Perhaps even with to-morrow’s daylight he might think better of 
his resolution, and change it, forgetting all that nonsense about a 
voice. 

Later on in the evening, and after Linda had retired, Adrian ex- 
plained in confidence to Xante the particulars of his escape from 
durance in gnaresbrook Castle, by the aid of the unknown; but he 
seemed shy of talking much of liis adventure. He left Snaresbrook 
at dawn of day. 


CHAPTER V. 

“ The seed that is sown it will spring.”— Carlyle. 

“ We won’t let Adrian keep all the adventures to himself,” said 
Mrs. Bright, who had played an aubade of Mendelssohn’s ” Chant 
Triomphal ” on the cracked piano as a hint to Linda that it was 
time to come to early muffins and oatcake. ” We will go and see 
these wonderful Brimham Rocks that the people here think so much 
of. 1 vote we train to Harrogate, leave your luggage there, while 
we take our knapsacks and sketching-tackle with us. We will be 
as good-natured as we can about the Rocks, which are sure to 
prove a failure, and go on direct to Fountains Abbey. So be quick 
over breakfast.” 

Linda was generally behind time, and to-day they had a run for 
the train to Harrogate, where they took tickets for Dacre Banks, 
as the nearest point walkable to Brimham Rocks. 

They entered the same carriage with a tall artist, on whom they 
had kept an eye for some time on account of his costume and his fine, 
water-color sketching-block. 

“ 1 will follow that block to the ends of the earth,” said Xante; 
for she knew that it meant business, and the scenery that suited him 
would be the thing for her. 

But he looked supe rciliously over the heads of the two lady- 
artists, and casually asked if they aw^are that it was a smoking-car- 
riage. 

‘‘No, we did not know it, but it scarcely matters in a five min- 
utes’ journey,” remarked Xante, who began to question the guard, 
the tall artist, and another man, a large, burl}^ good-humored 
Yorkshireman, about their way, and found it was a good three miles 
across to the Rocks. The tall artist in gaiters strongly advised their 
going on to Pateley Bridge, where they might find a fly to drive 
over. To their surprise, this good-looking deceiver got out at 
Dacre. 

‘‘1 think he borrowed that idea from us,” said Xante, “fori 
know his licket w^as for Pateley.” 

Their first impulse w’as to rush in the track of his sketching- 
block; but the Yorkshireman warned them they wmuld have three 
long miles to walk, so they resigned themselves," 


ADRIAN^ BRIGHT. 


19 


Of course there was no tly to be liad at Pateley Bridge; but, to 
their great surprise, the Yorlvshiremau came up to Taiite, on the 
platform, saying he had a trap outside, and offered to drive the 
ladies over very near the Brimham Rocks, where they could have 
three hours or so, and he would drive them back to the station. At 
this offer from a complete stranger, Tanle felt rather staggered. 

“If you want to faint, Linda, I will support 3 mu,’’ she said, 
when she consulted her neice in tl)e waiting-room; “ but you may 
rely on it as lire beffinning of adventures." 

“It seems too good an offer to refuse." 

And they actually drove lo Brimham Rocks in a strange neigh- 
bor’s dog-cart, Linda being kept in improving conversation all the 
time by the friend of the good natured Yorksliireraan, who was only 
one size smaller than himself, while Xante climbed up in front with 
their original friend, we drove at a rattling pace over the moorland 
road. 

“ I drove Professor Skinflint of the Archa3ological Society, and 
a lady wuth him over to Brimham much in the same way as I have 
met you two ladies to-day," said Ursa Major. 

“ Professor Skinflint! How interesting!" and Xante poked Linda 
in the back as the latter sat behind her in the dog-cart. 

“ Was the lady very handsome?" asked Linda, curiously. 

“ It is not for me to judge indeed, I could not see her for her 
thick blue veil; she appeared to have a finely pointed nose." 

“ Had she a sweet voice?" asked Xante. 

“ She seemed to admire it herself," said the Y'orkshireman, smil- 
ing broadly, “for she talked all the way; the professor did not 
utter a syllable, and Mr. George there went to sleep." Mr. George, 
styled by Xante Ursa Minor, shook his shaggy coat and gave an 
amused grunt. He had not gone to sleep in to-day’s drive, at any 
rate. “Her discourse struck me as being rather improving than 
amusing." 

“ How Adrian would have enjoyed itl" whispered Xante, slyly, lo 
Linda. 

“ At least, w^e know what to look for," said Linda, when their 
friends left them, promising to return at five o’clock and pick them 
up. “ A blue veil, a pointed nose, and a learned tongue, all blue 
together," and Xante laughed at the notion of this being Adrian’s 
fair unknown. 

Xhey had a famous scramble through the heather, and upon and 
among the piled bowlders of Brimham Rocks, whose curiously con 
torted masses of lichened granite rose glorious in gray and yellow 
age against the background of heather and distant hills swelling in 
wonderful interchange of crimson flush and purple gloom. Xhese 
igneous masses of strange form and worn surface lie strewm about 
in wild and picturesque c.onfusion, as if the Cyclops had amused 
themselves by tottering dowui and tossing the fanes of Xitanic Druids 
all pell-mell, or, as Xante said, who had traveled in Spain, “ as if 
you saw part of the Sierra de Guadarama through the bottom of a 
glass tumbler. 

In a sequestered nook they perceived the white hat of the artist, 
the gileful one. 

“ He has most likely done an hour’s work before we came," said 


20 


A DU I AN T3UIGHT. 


Tatilo, regretfully. He seemed to be making a careful study of 
three inches of one of the moss-grown bowlders, with a ueep of the 
roof of the cottage where visitors refresh themselves. 

This fiend in artist form coolly asked if they had driven over 
from Pateley. They simply assented, and, leaving the “ Guileful 
One,” they clambered on, enjoying the varying groups of ancient, 
hoaiy bowlders until (hey came to a good point, where a particularly 
large rock in the form of a peg-top balanced itself on its slender 
leg, and near this they sat and sketched for an hour — at least Tante 
did, for Linda, with whose mind (his wild and wayward scene 
would at most times have been in tune, soon strayed awniy in quest 
of a blue veil covering a pointed nose. 

” Come quickly, Tante. I have found the veil,” cried Linda, as 
she tied back swiftly, her eyes sparkling with animation. And they 
made their wmy as rapidlj' as the broken ground would permit to the 
cottage of refuge in the midst of this stony waste, where the Hymen 
imbibe the necessaiy juices, and the public are offered the conven- 
ience of ” A penny a wash, ladies and gentlemen,” as is inscribed 
above the taj) over a sink. They reached the refuge just in time to 
see a fly drive away with a gentleman who might have been Pro- 
fessor Skinflint, and with a lady who certainly wore a blue veil, 
but of whom they could distinguish no other particular. 

Pursuit of the fair invisible was useless, so Mrs. Bright and Linda 
made their way to their trysting-place, the gate leading to the house 
of their Yorkshire friends, wdio made them come in, seated them 
by the fireside of Ursa Major’s home, who introduced them to his 
sister, a large and stately person, and regaled them with cake and 
ginger wine before driving back to Pateley Bridge. No one knew 
or asked the name of an.ybod}’^; they were all brothers and sisters in 
true Arcadian fashion. Both ladies improved rapidly in their York- 
shire idiom, and understood the moorland butcher who held up a 
leg of beef as the dog-cart passed, shouting, ” Tiiot’s tlie roight 
stoof which it certainly appeared to be. 

Especially was Linda instructed by being treated as a woman of 
mind and an intellectual equal by her conversational companion of 
the previous drive, who had secured her society again, and seemed 
to take pleasure in leaching her Mid-Yorkshire politics. Both of 
these gentlemen in shaa:gy coats, with gentle manners and rough 
voices, were Badicals; Ursa Minor particularly so. He told Linda 
that being all small landholders and all equal ” they doon’t take 
much ’coont of aristocracy here aboot,” a fact which must make 
society in those parts especially enjoyable. Indeed, he tried so hard 
to prepossess her in favor of Yorkshire institutions that Tante 
afterward rallied her on her conquest of the ” small landholder;” 
an adjective which was scarcely accurate when applied to men of 
the first and second magnitude. 

Whatever permanent residence in those parts might be found on 
actual experience, the day’s excursion was really delightful. So 
much oxygen and so much amusement seldom sparkle througli one 
short day; and their laughter was not over even yet. tor Ihe Guile- 
ful Artist got into the train at Dacre Banks, looking fagged and 
famished, while they were fat and flourishing. 

” There’s 3"our tall friend again,” said the largest Yorkshireman, 


ADRTAX BRIGHT. 


21 


with a griu, to Tante; while the other hospitable native was doing 
his best to persuade .Linda to go to Claphara (name of fear to a 
Londoner) — though this Clapham lies at the foot of Ingleborough 
and the Great Whernside Mountains, which are higher than the 
Kensington and Wimbledon ranges; and to visit some other places 
of interest in the track of the horse-fairs that he habitually haunted. 

The aunt and niece slept at Kipon, whence Mrs. Bright indited 
the following letter to her nephew, addressing it to the care of his 
father in London and marking it “ immediate 

“ My dear Adrian, — We are now on the trail; we have seen the 
lady! True, we have not identified her by her voice (of which, 
however, we have heard a favorable report), nor have I seen more 
than the back of her bonnet (though Linda has). She W’ears a blue 
veil, and has a chiseled nose— some say a trifte too much cliiseled, 
but tastes are various. She travels with Professor Skinflint, and 
evidently belongs to him, in ivhat relation 1 cannot say; perhaps 
wife, sister, mother, grandmother, though this last is unlikely, from 
the activity of her habits; it takes a good deal of gymnastic practice 
to get over the ground at Brimham Rocks, This is strictly in char- 
acter with the habits of your fair unknown. As far as the pro- 
fessor’s movements can be gathered from the conjecture of his sci- 
entific brethren, he seems to be working his way toward Bolton 
Abbey and the Wharfedale, whither we shall also direct our steps 
after our visit to Fountains Abbey, and where we shall most pioh- 
ahly meet you; the junction we shall all form will be a focus of 
deep interest. I am too late for to-night’s post, I find, so more to- 
morrow. 

“ Thus far, my letter relates strictly to our own affairs, yours and 
mine, Adrian; but, should this not happen to meet your fren/.y- 
rolliug eye until you return to London, give 3mur uncle and cousins 
the reading of the following page, as I have not time to write m^^ 
ravings twice, and I have dried this and made it instructive for 
Cinderella and the rest of the children. If you want to turn a 
penny, you may send it afterward to a magazine! There, 1 would 
not thus have packed off home this mental luggage, of which one 
picks up such a weight by the way, only that, missing last night’s 
post, I thought 1 might throw in my view on Fountains Abbey. 
Admission one shilling, and w'orth all the money. This description 
may save your pocket in case you fear to encounter further advent- 
ures among ruins. 

“ The initiatory rite performed, we v/andered on through the 
large and well-kept grounds, expecting at every moment to be 
pounced upon by an intelligent guide, a perambulant museum 
library, but we were left to our own reflections and other joys! 

“ We sat down to enjoy our first views of the abbey; oh, such an 
abbey ! at the second point of view 1 felt inclined to say, as my boys 
do, ‘ Oh, this is an abbey and a half;’ by the time we reached the 
third station, which looks down over the ground-plan of the old 
monastery, distinctly traceable in ruins on the well-kept turf, we 
felt as if viewing the remains of three, four, half a dozen abbeys, so 
^great an idea did it give us of the extent of the monastery ; while the 
ruins, still erect, of the abbey speak for themselves of the size and 


o 


22 ADRIAN BRIGHT. 

sumptuousness of the Church of the Fountains; for the Protestant- 
ism which overthrew tlie monastery respected the abbey cliurch. 

“ This led us into much and tall talk of the mighty dominion of 
Rome; when in an outlying island like Britain, an offshoot of a 
northern brotherhood should be able to edify a structure of this 
magnitude; and of the company (unlimited) of Freemasons who 
roamed througli the length and breadth of Christendom, scattering 
abbeys and cathedrals broadcast as the}’" went, until we find their 
memorials from beyond Jordan to the Ultima Thule; from the 
Euxine as far as all the Finisterres. 

“ N.B. — Keep this for the magazine, it is so well rounded in the 
Ruskiu style. You might get a penny a line for it. The learned 
author con tinuee: 

“ The cloisters are in good preservation, and so are the arches of 
the two aisles of the abbey, Norman on one side. Early English on 
the other; but the aisles are roofless, while the cloister arches spring- 
ing from hexagonal pillars form a darkened, double arcade with one 
bright window at the extreme end, 

“Mem, — This makes a good light-and-shade picture. I am 
pleased with the sketch I made of it. 

“ The tower is a grand perpendicular pile— a word you must use 
at least once in describing an abbey —forming a fine contrast with 
the Early-English Ladye Chapel, whose main arches are sustained 
by two tall columns of marvelous lightness, from which branch out 
the two side chapels, forming altogether the Chapel of the Nine 
Altars, The effect of this is unique in its beauty. This preci(»us 
treasure, handed to us from of old, is being well taken care of; for 
it has the advantage of being under the care of a nobleman able and 
willing to protect it for us. Notwithstanding our being yesterday 
nearly perverted to Radicalism by some modern Radicals, who did 
us a good turn, we find that noblemen may still fill a useful place in 
the world, if it be but to maintain architectural remains that at once 
refine, educate, and give enjoyment. 

“ Rem.— This to work into a prospectus for the Kyrle Society, 
or a debating ditto, or a maiden speech. 

“ After much groping about among the woods and shrubberies 
we found our way to the ‘ Surprise,’ where the first view of Fount- 
ains Abbey is usually displayed to tourists, and here Linda sketched 
an exquisite vignette which will bring her glory in one of the winter 
exhibitions. If she only perseveres she will make a name in art, for 
she has abundant talent.’’ 

[Tanle, like all amiable women, kept a match-making corner in 
her heart; so, once having her attention drawn to the probability of 
Adrian at some lime falling in love, she look the opportunity of 
praising Linda to her nepliew,] 

“ Private P.S. — I think a confirmed bachelor is out of harmony 
with nature, so 1 shall keep a sharp look-out for the veiled lady (I 
do not believe she is half as handsome as Linda), so trust 

“ Your loving aunt, 

“ Lucy Bright. 

“ 2d P.S.— 1 reopen my letter to recant what 1 have just said about 
bachelors; the dapper little waiter here, who has been for twenty- 
five years completely master of the establishment, when told that 


ADKTAN BRIGHT. 


23 

his master is out, remarks, ‘ He can well spare him. His master is 
a bachelor, he is a bachelor, and the cook — well, he cannot say she 
is a bachelor, but she is in the same way;’ and the hotel is about as 
delightful as it is possible for an inn to be, and crammed with fasci- 
nating bric-^-brac. A tourist in the hotel, who, 1 fear, is a wolf 
dressed in the guise of an artist, tells us of Barden Tower as a cap- 
ital staying-place for Bolton Abb“y and many moorland beauties; 
indeed, he is so very friendly as to take considerable interest in our 
plans, to help us to form them by lending us his maps, etc,; he 
offers to bespeak rooms for us if he arrives at Barden Tower first, 
or to take care that a comfortable farm-house shall be at our disposal 
in case the tower is crowded! If we are there first we are ‘ just to 
mention his name;’ which, however, he has omitted to tell us. 
Pretty well this, we thought, for our second day in Yorkshire, and 
nine miles in a strange friend’s dog cart on the first da}^ hereby 
hangs a whale of a tale, but of all this more anon, and when we meet. 

“ The useful information 1 pass on for your present benefit and 
guidance.” 

The tourist alluded to w^as the Guileful Artist, who, curiously 
enough, seemed to follow (accidentally, of course), in the wake of 
the lady-artists. 

The Hirther adventures and enjoyments of our friends and their 
revelry in the works and Nature-studio of Turner, who gloried in 
Yorkshire, and especially in the Wharfedaie, shall not give our 
hearts the pangs of envy, as, although of the gladdest interest to 
these true artists, they have little to do with this story; all that con- 
cerns us is that, some days after the dispatch of Mrs. Bright’s letter, 
they went by train to Ilkley, where Tante secured a tly, taking it, 
as she said, from between the false teeth of the elder of two ladies 
whose luggage was already up, but who had less right to it than 
Tante, who had hailed it in the dusk and had then been lost to the 
flyman’s memory dear, having gooe to seek Linda and her luggage. 
They drove in the damp twilight to Bolton Bridge, where they 
found w’elcome at the Devonshire Arms, and woke next morning to 
sunshine tempering the moorland breezes. The servant asked if 
they wanted a plain breakfast. 

‘‘ 1 think we do,” said Tante, doubtfully, as the Yorkshire break- 
fasts are generally florid; but wdien the maid brought in nothing but 
coffee and toast, not even the conventional muffin, Tante thought 
they must have it a little more ornate, and ordered something 
strengthening. ” 1 rather counted upon meeting wdth adventures 
here,” said Tante, meditatively, as they satin the empty coffee-room. 
” They say the house is full, but not a creature is visible. Indeed, 
the solitude is deathly. It was pouring with rain when we came 
last night, and not a soul was to be s(en even then.” 

Tante loved cheerfulness, but Linda preferred not to he bored, 
and said so. Both were glad, however, on going out, to find the 
beauty of the place as complete as its solitude, and its solitude as its 
beauty. There were no guides lurking in ambush, no fees to be paid, 
no man in possession. 

” The ruins of Bolton Abbey are really lovely,” said Tante; ” they 
have not been at all overpraised.” 


ADRIAIS" BRIGHT. 


21 


The building is much less extensive than Fountains Abbey, con- 
taining less for the arclueologist and more for the painter; so it 
gladdened the hearts of this pair of artists. Its situation, by a bend 
of the river, surrounded by trees, near rocky banks and distant 
moorland heights, is perfect. The architectural style of the build- 
ing, part of which is still used as a church, is for the most part dec- 
orated Gothic, and it is taken care of in that degree that preserves it 
without interfering with its scenic beauties. The ruin is surrounded 
by irravestones in the form of very low tables, being slabs of stone 
supported upon four short stone legs. A glittering cascade, flowing 
over a dark scar, on the high, rocky bank of the Wharfe, is in itself 
a pleasing episode in any view of the southern side of the Priory, 
and it is made more interesting by its conveying such a lively me- 
morial of Turner. 

These beautiful things kept the Londoners so fully employed in 
sketching, exploring, and admiring, that they had scarcely time to 
remark how strange it was that they had the place all to themselves, 
that nobody’ seemed to care a bit about it, when one would have 
expected it to rain tourists and snow artists’ white umbrellas. 
Truly, the season was rather late, being nearly the end of September, 
but the very partridges were unmolested in this northern paradise. 
Gne beauteous maiden, clothed in pink from cheeks to ankles (relat- 
ed to some dweller in or near the livery stables), who stood at gates 
in photographic attitudes, was the only visible inhabitant. Verily, 
she was often visible, and her movements, according as she stood in 
any one of her five positions, gave the landscape the interest it re- 
quired to make the pictures pay. V' hat would a Woiivermans be 
without the white horse? Why, no VYouvermans at all; and thus 
with Bolton Priory and the pink maiden. 

It was pleasant to hear her say to some one inside the stables, 
“Only a couple of arlisses,” in a musical sneer. Tante asked 
Linda, who knew the language, if that were real Yorkshire. Linda 
was not sure, so Tante had to guess the true idiom for herself, and 
she so far improved herself in the tongue that, when the mist of 
afternoon covered every detail of the view she was sketching, she 
said, in pure Yorkshire, that, after so glorious a morning, they had 
“ nowt to groomble at in the weether,” and proposed (of course in 
the local dialect) adjourning to a cottage she had espied in the mid- 
dle distance, where they asked for bread-and-butter to fill up the 
foreground. A large plateful of slices was brought them, both 
bread and butter being first-rate, and the slices of a size suited to 
first-rate people, such as Ursa Major, and also some home-made 
ginger-beer. The tourists cleared the plate and inquired the charge'. 

“ ’Tis toopence t’ beer, and suppoose I charge ye toopence for t’ 
bread.” 

“ And not dear at the mooneyl” said Tante to her niece, recog- 
nizing a purer form of the native idiom. 

Invigorated by bread-and-butter, served in bulk with such primi- 
tive simplicity, they fell to serious work until driven home by dark- 
ness, and chiily from the mist which after once rolling itself bach- 
ward, in the artful manner of mist, now enveloped again both 
artists and their subject. Only the appetizing thought of hot trout 
smoking on the festive board reconciled them to candlelight after 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


the gloiy of sunset playing through the traceried windows of the 
Priory. Their solitude at the inn was broken by another entrance, 
and on looking up from their tea, lo! the (Guileful) tourist friend, 
who had so strongly recommended Barden Tower instead of the 
Devonshire Arms, was in the coflee room, and he entered into con- 
versation at once. 

“ How can he explain his presence here when he told us the other 
place was so much more desirable?” asked Linda of her aunt, when 
once more they found themselves alone. ” Is it another case of 
guile?” 

‘ ‘ I fear it is a confi rmed habit, ’ ' said Tante. ‘ ‘ Perhaps we should 
endeavor to convert him.” 

They made Bolton Priory their headquarters for some days, and 
Sunday passed quietly, its peace unbroken save by men and boys in 
creaking Sunday boots stamping up the church as loud as possible; 
” a case of misapplied vainglory,” Tante called it. 

Monday brought with its awaking Adrian Brighton, attracted by 
Tante’s letter. He had walked across from Otley through the 
AVashburn district, made so immortal by Turner that, let future im- 
provements cause what desolation they may, we shall never lose the 
knowledge of how l)eautifiil it has been; and, if it have the good 
hap to be let alone, these pictures will serve as a record of nature’s 
growth and varying. 

Adrian walked through this dale of Washburn with a companion 
whom he met on the road, and who told him tales of deepest interest 
connected with the great painter and his work. An elderly and 
thoughtful man, who walked neither far nor fast, but who drew 
Adrian by his personal magnetism into delaying his journey in search 
of the "Voice, and halting as his guest for the night in a house little 
larger than a cottage, near by where the Homan Road crosses the 
broad moorland. Bread and milk and food for thought were all 
his hospitality, though there was the sight of some gems of art in 
his bedroom, for he seemed poor in coin though rich in greater 
treasures; but not till midnight did the suddenly found friends tear 
themselves apart, and with earliest dawn they were on foot again, 
soon to say adieu, for the old man was weary, and a certain feeble- 
ness of body increased his appearance of age. And though, mayi)e, 
they might never meet again except in memory, yet their newly dis- 
covered kinship of soul w'as potent as hooks of steel, grappling them 
together for eternity. Blood is thicker than water, but the wine of 
chosen friendship is richer than the life-blood. 

Adrian breakfasted with the ladies; and while Linda, who had 
much Daraphernalla, was preparing her painting materials for a fresh 
sketch, he went out to judge of the Wliarfe as a fishing stream, un- 
der the conduct of the enthusiastic admirer of Barden Tower, to 
wiiich ruin distance seemed to lend a peculiar enchantment; though 
for all his expressed devotion to the simple manners left by the 
peasant Lord Clifford as an heirloom of tradition to Barden, he was 
yet unprejudiced enough to linger within sound of the dinner-call 
at Bolton. He convinced Adrian that Barden Tower w’as the one 
place to choose to stay at in all Yorkshire, and then retired with the 
consciousness of a mission fulfilled. 

Adrian w^as guided by the ladies (as old inhabitants) to the Strid. 


ABRTAK BRIGHT. 


20 

“ We always find the Yorkshire people kind and civil,” said Tante, 
“ so we think nothing of trespassing on this farm, where a path 
tlirough the garden gives ns a short-cut to the river.” 

The walk % the Wharfe seems lovelier than usual to-day; Linda 
saw it through the rosy glow of Adrian’s presence, and Adrian 
through the light of the revelations given him by his friend of yes- 
terday, the anchorite or the philosopher of the Washburn. Each 
step showed them a fresh beauty, and revealed to them Turner more 
and more; whether they paced under the soft, sunlit greenery, or 
sat by the peat- moss-colored river and watched the change from its 
smooth flow to where it dashes in foamy waves among the breakers. 
They felt they were already familiar with this scenery, from the 
pictures. It gave a sense as of revisiting old haunts. Often they 
stopped to exclaim ” I know that bank,” or ” That path leads us 
down to the river again.” They did not wander further than the 
Strid, which Adrian, though against Tante’s wish, crossed and re- 
crossed with ease; and Linda read the tale of Romilly, with deepest 
pathos in her voice. They lingered at this point, where the river 
rushes madly through its narrow channel, conversing of old times, 
of good Lord Clifford, of the bootless hem, of poet and painter, losing 
themselves in the magic realm of association, till presently they 
were recalled to actual circumstance by becoming entangled among 
the many woodland pathways, now high above, now at the water’s 
edge; then extricating themselves by crossing a bridge, only to 
thread a path through a labyrinth of beauty on the other side, a 
diorama of sweet vignettes, each succeeding view being more raptur- 
ous than the last; and Adrian never once alluded to the Voice, con- 
cerning which he had been so overflowin<r during breakfast, but 
which" Linda’s intellectual sympathy had apparently driven from 
his memory. Perhaps none the less for this reticence did its music 
haunt him still; he heard it in the river’s ripple, in the abeles’ 
rustle; it had sung to him ever since he first heard it, even through 
the thought-efforts enjoyed with Linda, or with the fatherly philoso- 
])her. As he listened to their argument, truthful or satirical, vision- 
ary or realistic, he felt the need ot one other solution of all soul- 
problems, one which should bring healing balm to the sin-bruised 
nature of which one speaker presented the possible, the other only 
the actual, side. Is there no possible union of poetry and fact. Oh! 
if his Voice might but be heard again! Of what did the Voices speaK 
to the Maid of Orleans? What were the differences of nature in St. 
Margaret and St. Catherine? Musings such as these floated through 
his brain as he walked through these fairy glades (oh ! joyous holiday 
hours of youth and genius, when all is hope or victory), with Linda 
ready to fall down before him, the philosopher glad to heap upon 
him all his experience, mild Tante to soothe him and caress, and the 
soft greenness of the landscape to recreate him after his conquest of 
the white marble, and he in his early manhood. Surely he should 
liave been happy. A young man is the perfection of creation, and 
this one was of all young men the most perfect. 

Why should he seek a Voice and other myths? 

Their talk was as labyrinthine and as vivifying as the network of 
green paths, and here and there as brightly sunlit, with the river of 
thought flowing through its wilderness. Linda’s portion of the 


ADIlIAis BRIGHT. 


stream lay where its volume is gathered together for impetuous rush 
through one narrow channel, for she staked her all on Adrian’s love; 
Xante’s was where the stream, freed from the burden of tlie fight, 
ripples melodiously through the ferns and branches, beautifying 
each hard pebble of experience with its sweet, clearing influence; 
Adrian’s inner life resembled that sunlit, foaming passage of the 
waters where it seems a joy to this living thing to dasli itself against 
every rock that bars its course, each effort adding to the interest it 
gives us, so overflowing, so conquering, so varied — here a fountain, 
there a pool — that where it plays, and whirls, and sparkles, it dom- 
inates the entire landscape, leaving room for no other admiration. 

“ Your Guileful Ariist was the man against wliom my philoso- 
pher friend bore a grudge, as with his white hat and complete equip- 
ment he sat complacently parodying trees and painting landscapes 
in what he called the style of Turner — ” 

“ As if Turner or nature had but one style,” interjected Linda. 

” Had he, 1 mean, the Guileful One, but seen a fraction of what 
was revealed to me,” continued Adrian, “ that glimpse of the uni- 
versality of Turner would have opened eyes which never yet have 
seen. Here, indeed. Turner could not fail in master-work, here, in 
the landscape dearest to his heart; but in the tamed and tranquil 
Washburn district he shows himself even a greater master, such as 
the public knows him not at all. AVhere the landscape had 
least charm for him, there he flung over it his richest veils of 
atmosphere, giving it a more abundant comeliness, making 
sweet mystery of its half -hid charms, humbling himself to 
lesser lights, permitting himself pleasure, and even play, as he 
took all manner of unusual subjects and showed what a master 
could do in his lighter hours, like a father playing with his children 
when his daily work lies elsewhere. When day after day he emptied 
his pocket of sketches, separately rolled up, representing his rapid, 
careful work, he would turn to sportive frolic, and delight himself 
with learning lore of birds, arranging his trophies in a volume as 
their knowledge came to him.” 

” I have seen clever studies of ducks and fish and other things by 
Turner in our national collection,” said Linda, who seldom admit- 
ted imperfect knowledge. 

“ But this is something quite different,” said Adrian. ” Turner 
had cut the pictures out of a volume of Bewick’s birds, and made 
studies of each particular bird from the life in his own exquisite 
way; the coloring and handling of each are most deliciqus, and the 
comparison of the two masters’ readings on each page of the vol- 
ume, as Turner himself made it, is instructive and delightful, with 
the pictures all stuck by himself; the wafers bearing the impress of 
his own thumb.” 

” It bears hardly upon the black and white reading, does it not,” 
asked Xante. 

” One seemed to me a commentary on the other; between them 
both I knew the bird. Then, again, we saw perspective views as 
carefully executed as scale practice is done by a great pianist, and 
feats of art such as this: in order to show the relative size of a man- 
of-war as compared with other craft, between half-past nine a.m. 
and one in the afternoon Turner made a drawing of three views of 


28 


AJiUiAN T5K1GHT. 


the larger vessel in three positions, done from memory; right, even 
to the satisfaction of naval men, in all details of rigging and the 
rest, and several small yachts and luggers round the ship.” 

” It was, indeed, a tour de force!"' said Linda. 

” He had the true artist’s versatility, for he is represented in the 
philosoolier’s collection even to portraits and flower-pieces, and 
much more that I could rave about were not the description of a 
dinner bad for a hungry man.” 

” Yes,” said Tante; ” Turner’s tree-drawing in the Wharfedale 
series is so wonderfully instructive to us, and so depressing.” 

” Elieu!” said Adrian, laughing. ‘‘But my philosopher friend 
must have met you and Linda, for 1 recognized your work by his 
description. He told me how he turned with relief from the pride 
of the Guileful Artist to two artists, less firmly incased in self-love, 
who, in true womanly manner, were reading and recording the 
woodland poetry. I knew as he spoke what hand was wooing the 
delicate outworks of nature. The broidery of her robe was all she 
dared to touch, and this so gently handled as to reveal the hidden 
perfectness.” 

“That was Tante,” said Linda. ” By what did* you recognize 
me?” 

Adrian hesitated. 

” Do you think 1 cannot bear it?” demanded she, haughtily. 
” Try me with criticism, his first and then your own, and see if I 
cannot improve the stuff 1 am made of. Stout canvas made to bear 
a good deal of embroidery must not mind the needle pricks.” 

“ 1 know you have a stout heart, Linda, and a rssolute will be- 
sides, and can bear to hear experience say that to recognize only the 
strength of Nature is to miss her other and finer qualities.” 

Linda turned away, thoughtful but not displeased. Truth is only 
hated by mean souls. 

Some pleasant people had come to the hotel in their absence, and 
with them they visited the church, or restored portion of Bolton 
Priory. It is very plain, a contrast the more unexpected as the 
western end has had an elaborate addition of perpendicular work 
superimposed on the original transitional Norman, which has 
among its peculiarities arches of horse-shoe form recalling the 
Saracenic. In the triforium is a fassage-way by which the monks 
used to make their procession from the priory to hold the midnight 
mass in the church. 

This struck Linda as a motive for her projected picture of Bolton 
Priory. She planned to paint the moonlight gleaming through the 
traceries and on the river beyond the churchyard; its sllverj' effect 
enhanced by the torchlight procession of the brethren approaching 
the altar by this narrow, high-raised pathway behind the arcade of 
arches and slender columns. 

” This shows me the use of the double-arched triforium which so 
frequently occurs in larger churches, especially’’ in France,” said 
Adrian. I always before took it to be a fancy of the architect, 
and a picturesque contrast to the light and large-windowed clerestory 
above.” 

” Look at this wooden boss in the roof, dated 1520,” said Tante, 
pointing upward to the strange device of a skull with a serpent en- 


ADRIAN; R RIGHT. 


29 


tering at the eye and issuing at the mouth, “ It is said to be sym- 
bolical of sin entering, as it did with Eve, by the eye, and coming 
out in falsehood at the mouth. The old sexton explained it to me.” 

” The device is in the spirit of the siren, or of the Loreley tale,” 
said Adrian. 

While Linda worked at the details of her midnight picture, Tante 
planted herself, to her discomfort, in the path of all the tourists go- 
ing into the church (it seemed to be a gala day at Bolton, and many 
came on pilgrimage to-day), and began an outline drawing of the 
beautiful double western front. She became food for gnats and 
midges, which abound at ^Vharfedale, and the butt of the scoffs of 
the many tourists, the patronage of the enlightened few, and the 
theme of praise of the sexton and his wife, being by them com 
mended as a person of great taste in drawing the west front, which 
” blesh ye. none of them ever stays to look at.” 

“Here’s another of ’em,” exclaimed a tourist, who had seen 
Linda, near whom Adrian was standing; and he offered Tante his 
opinion that the ruin w^as “a very rum old affair.” Then the 
truide came up, giving for the hundreth lime that day the history 
of Prior Moon, wdio built the perpendicular outer-casing to the 
beautiful twelfth-century front. 

“Yes, those animals are dogs; it is taken from Revelations: 
‘ outside are dogs and sorcerers.’ ” 

“Lawk!” cry the tourists, in chorus. A sort of Amen by the 
congregation. 

“ The old part of the abbey w^as built in 1100 — ” 

“ Well, 1 declare, 1 thought it had been in ruins long before 
1100,” said the educated British traveler, on seeing a well-preserved 
specimen of Earl}’^ English architecture, with rnany additions of 
decorated Gothic, of the date about 1480, or a little earlier, 

“ It mnstbe very old,” said the enlightened chorus, in a full score 
of respectful whispers, to the sexton’s wife, who was reaping a har- 
vest of shillings by doing the honors of the aged church. 

“ It will be no great change to you, I should say, to get to 
heaven,” 

“ Oh, sir, I hope heaven will be a much more heavenly place; 
we’ve plenty of sin at home,” 

Skipton lawyer, sarcastically, 

“ Oh, indeed; have you really?” 

Mrs. Bright was glad to escape from these people and take refuge 
in Bolton Hall, whose arched entrance is best known by Landseer’s 
picture of “ Bolton Abbey in the Olden Time,” and sit with Ailrian 
and Linda in the duke’s fragrant garden of cloves, carnations, and 
sweet-peas, with a background of hollyhocks, and a triple edge of 
sweetlirier, lavender, and heather; and thence they made their way 
to the more rural garden at George Haythornthwaite’s, wdiere they 
sat under the apple-trees, relishing their daily loaf and golden but- 
ter, and where the laborers, tilling the rich earth, left them un- 
molested, while the sparrows and robins came upon the table to pick 
up the crumbs. 

“ The very midges are not afraid of us,” said Tante, laughing, 
though the gnats had bitten her frightfully beneath her gauntlet 
gloves. The maiden in punk threw herself into the attitude of her 


30 


ADKIAN BKIGHT. 


best photograph in Adrian’s honor, though her neck must have ached 
with bending it to the number of her admirers. “ She must have 
made money enough to-day to buy her a new pink gown.” 
said Tante, as sbe saw two more carriage-loads of people stop 
and inquire of her concerning the famous view of nolhing-at 
all at the corner of a barn, highly lauded by the admirer of 
Barden Tower, perhaps in his guileful character, or, perhaps, in his 
line of weak, but conceited, artist. Our friends peered about, high 
and low, to see anything to admire; to their eyes there was the cor- 
ner of a barn (and there was nothing more), with the tamest back- 
ground and foreground in the whole neighborhood. 

“ I could tear my hair for my blindness,” said Tanto. 

” Tourists crane their necks like other flocks, and follow each 
other to what the fly-drivers tell them is the point of rapture,” re- 
turned Linda, sententiously. 

“That person always eftectually or guilefully admires what no 
one else can see any merit in,” said Tante, alluding to the advocate 
of Barden Tower. 

” He would travel to Norway to paint a gate-post stuck near a 
clump of dandelions,” said Linda, contemptuously. 

Tliere may have been something to see at the carriage-level, but 
there was nothing, no refreshment, for the wayfarer. That is often 
the way of things. 


CHAPTER VI. 

“ Time his own thoughts did elevate — 

Most happy in the shy recess 
Of Barden’s lowl}’’ quietness, 

And choice of studious friends had he 
Of Bolton's dear fraternity.” 

Bolton was quiet again. The tourists vanished as mysteriously 
as they came, like locusts; none could account for their niovements. 
The pleasant people had left the Devonshire Arms; the bride and 
bridegroom who came so prettily in foregrounds, or told so well 
as points of color in more distant, shady pathways (being so si)ick 
and span they stood out with convenient distinctness), they also 
vvere gone. Not that it mattered much socially, for, as Tante said, 
‘‘ They took no more heed of us than of the worms beneatli their 
feet; thej’^ did not see us steal their cream from under their very 
noses,” 

Still, their sofa was empty, and so was the small table appropri- 
ated to the use of the tall, guileful Mephistopheles in the neat fancy 
dress of an artist, the lover of Barden. He was also gone, and was 
supposed to be at Barden Tower. 

The drawing- room was occupied by ladies incognita, who did not 
take walks, but only drove out in a closed fly occasionally for an 
airing. The parlor was occupied by the scientific collections of an 
absentee tenant. 

Our friends were also about to take wing, but the question was, 
as usual, whither? Linda, remembering the adventure of Snares- 
brook, wondered if Barden Tower might form a romantic back- 
ground for adventures of which she might be the heroine, and so 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


31 


eclipse the former memory entirely, as she rejoiced to see its recol- 
lection wane paler and more faint. She wrote in Xante’s name to 
the occupants of Barden Tower to the effect that they three hoped 
to find accommodation in the tower on their arrival there on Satur- 
day evening. 

“ Devonshire Arms, Bolton Bridge, 

“ Friday, 35th September. 

“ Mrs Bright understands from a gentleman at present staying at 
the Devonshire A.rms, that Mrs. Slakeshy can board visitors, if 
Barden Tower is full, in the neighboring farmhouses. Mrs. Bright 
and another lady will be at Barden Tower on Saturday afternoon, 
and hope Mrs. Stakesby will be able to accommodate them. 

“P.S. — A gentleman will probably accompany Mrs. Bright and 
her friend.” 

They were projecting a week/s stay there when some new acquaint- 
ances, who had driven over there yesterday, told them they must 
have been beguiled, for tlie place was roofless and without a floor, 
and the houseful of visitors there could be none but owls and bats. 
Dismay at this account from people who had been on the spot made 
Xante all the more pleased that the letter had not been posted; but 
to Linda the description made it plain that here was the very thing 
she needed; mobnlight among ruins (for the moon was full — they 
had waited for its filling that Linda might get its effects for her 
picture of the midnight procession), this was of all things most de- 
lightful; and at Barden she could use the good Lord Clifford’s name 
to point the moral of her tale of the happiness of the simple life; 
the charm of dawn (Linda, who never found it easy to be down in 
lime for breakfast, could yet expatiate oh the joy of sunrise), and 
talk of daily teaching found in w'oods and rills, 

“ The silence that is in the starry sky. 

The sleep that is among the lonely hills.” 

It is so pleasant to philosophize from an armchair when all things 
are comfortable about one; the anchorite’s life seems so enviable 
when one is tired of everything else, and has a chosen companion 
for one’s solitude. As Xante liad a morning’s work to do to fiui.sh 
her picture of ” The White Doe of Rylstone,” as she called her 
study of a white cow among a group of colored cattle in the church- 
yard, she proposed that Linda should walk over to Barden with 
Adrian and see if the tower were only a name, or really a habitation 
fit for men and women — ay, ladies — while she finished her drawing 
and put things in trim for their departure. This was the oppor- 
tunity Linda wanted. She determined to pnt forth all her powers 
of captivation, and, if a chance adventure should arise, to be swift 
to make the most of it, and make it romantic beyond the adventure 
at Snarcsbrook, which certainly had its prosaic side, and would, 
most probably, have a ludicrous termination. 

The day did not favor her, for the air had the oppressive sultri- 
ness so frequent in the damp climate of Wharfedale; and though 
the walk through the woods could not fail of being pleasant, they 
found the scenery did not improve. Between the Strid and Barden 
Bridge it became tame and Thamesy, such as the Guileful One, a 


32 


ABUT AN JiltlGHT. 


roc.kiiey born, 'v\’Ould love. It was plain that they were leaving the 
best part of the scenery behind them, and it would be far to walk to 
the best points of view. Still, to taks up their quarters in a ruined 
lower had such a fine, romantic wildness about the sound of it that 
they thought it was worth trying, and they hunted about for the 
tower. 

It stood before them unsuspected. It was, indeed, a roofless 
ruin, as they had heard; nothing but a large, square stone funnel, 
vaulted with the sky and floored with grass and brickbats. No se- 
cret passages nor traceried windows, no old tapestrj'", nor even dun- 
geons. 

“ Ruin seize thee, roofless thing!? said Adrian, “ I don’t think 
we should have liked driving up here in the dusk of Saturday even- 
ing, with the prospect of getting through Suhday in Barden 
Tower,” he added, laughing; and Linda’s vision of romance dried 
up like an exhalation before this stern reality. 

” This is merely four walls and a hole to get in by,” continued 
Adrian. ‘‘We have seen the lodgings, let us try if the food is as 
* strictly confined to necessaries,” 

Thej i)eerod about the precincts of the tower, and soon found a 
farm house of fourteenth-century appearance, with Silver Stakes- 
by, licensed dealer in tobacco,” written over the door. 

"‘‘ Where there is tobaccc smoke there is sure to be a kitchen fire,” 
said Adrian, trying to cheer Linda, who was dismal at having found 
no opportunity of placing the poetry she had learned by heart to 
advantage. She did not remember that such-like privation and ad- 
versity in this very place hied the wisdom for which the vales, the 
cottage hearths, and the poets praised the good shepherd, Lord 
Clifford. Here, in these hnmble walks, his pride ‘‘ was softened 
into feeling soothed and tamed.” But, not appreciating the quality 
of his virtue, her drama was transformed to farce. 

They asked for some refreshments at the farm-house, and a 
wom!<n was bringing bread-and-butter and beer, to be taken out- 
side the premises, when ]ffr. Silver Stakesby flew at her, and said 
he did not sell beer to anybody; not that he did not want them to 
have beer, not he, but he had no license (and was aggrieved at hav- 
ing none), and he had to keep a clean conscience, and they could not 
have it there. The woman hastily brought the visitors some milk, 
and the master of the house drove off, treating the pony as perhaps 
he might have liked to treat some people, of course, if the}" deserved 
it, not otherwise. 

The house had been in the Stakesby family’s tenancy for four 
hundred years, and a chapel was attached to it; but, although it 
was queer and curious, still Linda and her cousin— no, friend— no, 
that is too cold; lover— no, that is too waim — well, her connection 
— were very glad they had not committed themselves to Barden 
Tower, especially as nobody seemed to recognize the possibility of 
obtaining lodgings for any one more nice than a stray angler; and 
they walked back to report their ill success to Tante, and to laugh 
over the grandiloquence of their unsent letter to Barden Tower. 

‘‘ We have had arrivals since you went out,” said Tante. “ The 
scientific people have come back to the parlor, and there was, oh! 
such a storm, at the tidying of their museum.” 


ADllIAN BRIGHT. 33 

"‘Oh! Diamond, Diamontl, what have you clone?’ Was that 
it?" asked Adrian, 

" Precisely so.” said Tante, 

" Perhaps it was more like Tante’s feelins: when the owner of a 
lovely overgrown ditch that she was using for a foreground kindly 
‘ set it to rights for her,’ and left all smooth as a tennis-lawn," said 
Linda. 

" Bnt that is not all. People have come to the coffee-room: and 
— guesis who they are. Our friends of Pateley Bridge, Ursa Major 
and Urea Minor. The latter asked particularly after you, Linda." 

Yes— there, enjoying the fine beef, with its adjuncts, the pickle- 
bottles, each standing in a sort of large silver mustard-pot, Avere the 
fine men that Yorkshire raises on this fine beef, only known by 
name to Mrs. Bright and her niece as the " goocl-nalured bears." 
After the first joyful greetings Ursa Minor engaged Linda in con- 
versation, almost persuading her to go to Olaphatn and take the 
route of the horse-fairs generally. 

" We drove over because ve heard you were here," said he, re- 
proachfully, " and now the landlady tells me you are going to leave 
Bolton to-day." 

" It is very obliging of you to take such an interest in our jour- 
ney." Linda’s tone was cold; she did not like Adrian to see this 
man paying her attention, absurd as the circumstance of their ac- 
quaintance was; but Adrian was talking with his aunt. 

The complimejit of tins visit amused Tante, but Linda was ungra- 
cious, and thought thf*ir free and hearty Yorkshire manners pre- 
sumptuous. Adrian took little heed of the new arriv’-als, except to 
admire their size. 

" 1 don’t talk about my Voice. Aunt Lucy, because it teazes 
Linda.” Adrian was quick to see this, thougli not vain enough to 
trace it to its cause. " But 1 have set my lieart upon finding that 
unknown music, were it only to disenchant myself. I will go out 
to the bar and order you a carriage for Ketllewell, and tlien I will 
go my own way on foot." 

On inquiry at the bar about getting on to Kettlewel), he heard it 
was such a rough road that they could not, drive further than Kiln- 
sey: and, when Professor Skinflint and his wife wanted a carriage 
at Kilnscy, the Kilnsey folk laughed at them. 

" Where did the professor go next?" asked Adrian, with inter- 
est. 

" lie tackled back here, to be sure, and a sight of trash he lum- 
bered up the carriage with. But, anyway, sir, we can’t post the 
lady to Kilnsey to-day, for we’ve got to send the drawing room to 
Ben Rhydding to-da\*, and the parlor must go to iSkipton in Craven 
to -morrow’." 

" Can’t the drawing-room wait?" 

"Oh, no, sir; drawing-rooms never waits! We always settles 
the drawing-room first, and then the ]>arlor. The coffee-room is 
mostly sen.sible people, you know, sir. and helps theirseTs." This 
was said in a conciliatory tone. "Drawing-rooms is mostly high 
and miLduy, and that stilf — you never!" 

" Is the drawing-room rich?" 

"I don’t know about rich; it gives itself airs. I should say it 


34 


BRIGHT. 

miglit be well off; and 1 must say this, it is tidy. But tlie parlor’s 
dreadful messy ; all over stones and bits of brick a-crunching into 
the carpet. We take up no end for the dust-pit every time his back 
is turned. Science is what I ’bhors. ” 

“Pleasant for the professor,” thought Adrian. “Is the draw- 
ing-room male or female?” he asked aloud. 

*** Bless your lieait, sir, it’s noticing 'of the sort— it’s two ladies.” 

“Young and loveIJ^” 

V Well, the .younger one is very seemly— not a tine, handsome 
lady, like your young lady,” alluding to Linda Fraser, “ or my 
Arabeller.” 

Linda would have been flattered. Arabella was a beauty in the 
'bouncing style, who served in the bar. She was the envy of the 
pink maiden, and the cynosure, as to ribbons, of the rosy damsel’s 
neighboring eyes. 

“But she’s a pretty little dear, and she have sweet manners of 
her own. I should say she bought ’em, for they never come to her 
Becond-hand from her ma,” and the landlady laughed at her own, 
humor. 

Adrian called several times on the professor in the parlor, but 
he was always out geologizing at a distance. To-day, while stand- 
ing at the parlor door in the afternoon, he- caught sight of the ladies 
from the drawing-room as they took their places in the carriage on 
leaving, lie stood transfixed. o 

. “ Have YOU seen the drawing-room, Linda?” he asked, on enter- 
ing the coffee-room, where the aunt and niece were at last alone, 
having sent the two Yorkshiremen out to seethe beauties of Bolton. 

“ No; is there anything particular in it?” 

'■ “ Is it a delightful room, like the De Gray room at Ripon?” 
asked Taute. 

“ The drawing-room has a Greek chin.” 

“ You absurd Adrian!” said laute. “ Are you speaking of Mrs. 
Skinflint?” 

“No; the professor encumbers the parlor floor.” 

“ A Grecian nose, a Grecian profile, one hears of,” said Linda, 
“but a Greek chin ” 

“ One never hears of it, because it is never seen.” 

IMovement of incredulity on t lie part of both ladies. 

“ No, believe iim. Aunt Lucy, you may, with diligent observa- 
tion, find live Grecian noses crery month, but a Greek chin is a 
rarity so precious that 1, a sculptor, who have made such tilings my 
study, have only in rny^ life seen Greek chins on two women’s faces 
before to-day. ” 

“ Who w’ere the others, and were they" lovable as well as lovely?” 
asked Linda, anxiously. 

“ One looked and spoke like a simpleton. 1 met her in a railway 
train. The other one i knew pretty intimately; she was gloriously 
beautiful, a Cleopatra, dark-eyed and full-lipped. I am bound to 
confers she was of most unpleasant temper.” 

“ Was she clever?” asked Linda, who winced under Adrian’s de- 
scription. “ The perfect outline ought to accompany talent.” 

“ She was empiy-headed, and so stupid that, in a charade, her 
friends could only make her act a dumb part— dress her in white, 




35 




ADRIAN" BRIGHT. 

nnfl turn the lamps to contraf-t xvitli moonlight fallirjr upon her, as 
*a poet’s vision in di-vision. It was sufficient; so long as she uttered 
no syllable she was perfect; but she maniecl, and — I still live.” 

” Perhaps the disposition of the ‘ drawing-room ’ is similar. I 
have always thought the small head cf the Greek statues indicative 
of intellectual weakness. My cousin at Leeds lias just the outline 
you speak of; you see, it is none so rare, after all; and she is only 
-a prettv doll.” 

” The face 1 saw' to-day is no doll’s face; there was a speaking 
sensibility in the eyes that showed feeling, if nothing more.” 

” How long did it take you to find out all this, Adrian?” asked 
Tante, smriing. 

‘‘A glimpse was aJl I had; but a sculptor’s eye is trained to 
form, and this form was perfect. Good-by, Tante, I am going to 
find out w'here those ladies have gone. 1 wdll see that face again.” 

“Impetuous Adrian, stay and tell us mo'c. They were two 
ladies with one Greek chin between them, I understand. Were they 
old or young?” 

“ They looked like mother and daughter.” 

“ Was it the mother?” asked Linda. 

“ A rich widow — oh, Adrian!” said Tante, laughing. 

“ The Chin has driven aw^ay the memory of the Voice,” said 
Linda. “ You are faithless.” 

Adrian looked hurt; one vvas perfect to the e 3 'e, the other to the 
ear. Linda’s shaft struck him, and he stood irresolute. The mem- 
oiy cf that thrilling voice rose up beside the vision just seen; love 
at first hearing contended with love at tirst sight. 

“ It is too liard that they should hbtli have run away from you, 
and left but the wreck of yourheart behind,” said Linda, with some 
acrimony.” , 

“ Tlie Voice was truth itself,”* said Adrian, eager in defense. 

“ It did what it promised, it released me from durance vile.” 

“ It was unkind not to stay and see its promise redeemed, iiow- 
ever.” • 

“ I would my faith in Heaven were as firm as my trust in that 
girl’s truth anti goodness. She is truthful as yourself, Linda, and 
3 ’ou are too strong to be falsa in word or deed.” 

“ My cousin at Leeds, whom you have heard me mention — ” 
Adrian nodded. Linda had, certainly, alluded frequently to her 
cousin at Leeds — “ she is so scrupulous for all the minor points of 
truth ” (“ Has truth any minor points?” tliought Adrian), “ that, 
in wu'itiug to me — you must know that, although I call llermionc 
my cousin, it is onl 3 '’ a sort of cousinship by marriage, like ours — 
she w'ould not, when a little child, write ‘ 3 'Oiir affectionate cousin,' 
but ‘ your affectionate couneciion.’ ” 

“ Do you correspond much how?” asked Adrian. 

“ I receive a neat tittle lettei; occasionally from llermione, in the 
pointed style affected by young ladies,” n plied she. 

Jjinda envied lier xjousin her name. She hated her owm name of 
Lucinda, a family name, and always dropped the second syllable. 

“ llermione! What a lovely name.” 

“ I can’t think how she came by it; her mother is a commonplace 


36 


ADRIANS' BRIGHT, 


woman of Ibe most worldly type. My uncle was a talented man, I 
believe.” 

“ Your cousin seems a paragon,” said Adrian, pettishly. ” Yet, 
T think, if 1 were to tell you of a girl with a diamoml necklace, 
you would Bay you had a cousin who woie several Koh-i noors 
strung up. Pray, is it all one cousin, or is there a choice?” 

Linda drew herself up with an offended air, tut Adrian was not 
disposed to pay the attention he usually gave to Linda’s changes of 
demeanor. He was sketching a Greek chin. 

” You say the dismal professor is going to Skiplon, to try to get 
to Kettlevvell that way,” said Tante, who had been meditating. 
” That is our route, so you had better come with us; you will have 
an opportunity of hearing the Voice. We might travel with the 
Skinflints, who knows? At any rate, we shall learn all about the 
woolen trade of Yorkshire, and we migiit wind up with a visit to 
Leeds, to see the cousin.” 


CHAPTER Vll. 

“ ‘ A stern chase is a long chase,’ 

Said the saucy Arethusa.” 

Away in a wagonette to Skipton, capital of Craven, all three of 
them, and only three of them, for the Skinflints were already off, 
and had left a neatly packed parcel, say nearly a cart- load of 
stones, etc., to be sent after tliem to their next “diggings.” 
Tante was hot in pursuit, as they were going just the same 
way; Adrian was fully prepared to dart away at a tangent at 
any moment after a Greek chin; Linda had not the slightest inter- 
est in either chase, so long as they, were likely to be unsuccessful. 

They heard of a mail-coach setting off early next morning for Ket- 
tlewell and the moorland, by nieans of widen they hoped to dis- 
tance the professor, or they might possibly travel by the same 
<• vehicle, 

The.y left Linda’s luggage at the station, Tante insisting upon it 
that she could not possibly need evening-dresses at Kettlewell or 
Buckden Pike, and they put up at the Devonshire Arms in Pkip- 
ton, ordering dinner for six, in cveiy sense of the word, while 
awaiting which meal they went out to see and be seen in Skipton. 

A caravan of wild beasts was in the town, and the tourists seemed 
to be taken for a part of the show, by the interest tliey excited. 
Perhaps they admired the Skiptonians as much, for never were so 
many gay colors seen as were displayed on the persons of the 
female population, who seemed for the most part to belong to the 
mamdaciuring classes, and the church congregation (for it was 
Sunday) made a gaudy pattern of the High Street of the gray town 
of Skipton. A rainbow stream of color flowed also from the 
grounds of the proud castle of the'CIiffords. with its motto Desor- 
mais cut in gigantic Roman letters, and reared high above its portal; 
thence, as far as the small church at the other end of the town, w^as 
one continuous movement of bright raiment. Factory w^omen are 
always fond of showy colors, and with reason; they must have 
gayety and expansion somehow to relieve the monotony of their 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


O 4 

prison and treadmill existence. The yellow caravans focused the 
color at one point and the gayly painted barges on the canal at 
another. 

They passed into the side streets, to let the stay-at-home portion 
of the po[)ulace have their share of the spectacle of themselves. Some 
beautiful silver-pheasant fowls feeding on the floor of a house at- 
tracted their attention, and the owner of the fowls and cottage called 
them in to share her admiration of their first two eggs. The fowls 
tliemselves could not have cackled more about the eggs. Here, 
also, they saw the Yorkshire bread, the famous oat-cake, which 
looks like pieces of wash-leather as it hangs from the ceiling. 

“ We must breakfast at half-past six and walk to the post-office 
to be in readiness to take our places outside the mail-coach, as it 
starts at seven, and waits for no one," said Adrian, who had been 
to the bar to Inquire?” 

” Is there nothing later?” asked Linda, who foresaw trouble. 

“ The second coach goes no further than Grassington.” 

Tante made a lively sketch with her pen of a park drag with its 
four spirited steeds, and Linda on the box-seat. Adrian fell into 
talk with a military-looking man, with seemingly nothing in the 
world to do, who was the only other guest in the hotel. 

They were up and had breakfast betimes, and were at the post- 
office in time to secure part of the box seat of the coach. Alas for 
Tante’s fancy sketch of a well-appointed coach, this was a shabby 
omnibus with two high-boned horses. 

” And Linda loves a fine mail-coach so much,” lamented Tante. 

The High Street was now a closely packed sheep-market. 

” Here is cleared up the mystery of your military-looking friend 
of last night, A.drian,” said Tante. 

There he was, holding up a fat sheep, and feeling his wool. 
They had taken him for a grouse-shooter, wearying fur his party, 
as he had been doing the dismal at Skipton for some dajs all alone, 
or else for a lover awaiting an answer to his letter of proposal. 

Driving on, they met the cattle market on its way to Skipton, and 
then the bu 3 mrs of flesh and fur in all sorts of conveyances; and the 
post-man, who drove, and a stout man, who more than shared the 
box-seat with Tante, had a friendly nod, a greeting, or a Yorkshire 
wink, for and from every one who passed. Adrian and Linda sat 
on the higher seat behind Tante, and chiefly conversed between 
themselves. 

Tante grew quite to know all the dwellers on the country-side for 
miles round. ” Good-morning, 3Ir. John Sharp, good-morning. 
Ml. Thomas Sharp ” (they were uncle and nephew), ” good-morn- 
ing, Mr. Sharps,” and the postman shouted at his own little joke, 
which every one was able to see the fun of in the clear light of the 
jolly morning, thougli it is not visible at this distance from day- 
light. He often reverted to it with a chuckle, and roared again as 
he showed Tante tlie houses of liie Messrs. Sharp. One’s sense of 
humor is keener— I must not say sharper, for fear of rivaling my 
friend, the postman— in the early morning. 

The stout man was powerful in poetry and sentiment. He quoted 
from yesterday’s sermon, threw out a'diatribe on Professor Skin- 
flint and his wicked views, fniminated against the Liberal govern- 


ADllIAX BRIGHT. 


. 38 

merit, whicli he considered was only liberal with other people’s 
money; but principally he dwelt on the surpassing beauty of the 
scenery they were to pass through, which he upheld as vastly 
superior to the Swiss Alps and the whole continent of America; all 
of which he had seen, 

“ Is this your philosopher friend, Adrian?” whispered Tante. 

He shook his head, and they turned again to listen, 

“ There’s a picture of rural purity, that’s the poetry of motion,” 
said lie, waving ids hand as a bare-armed maiden passed them, driv- 
ing her cow; and he talked of Ihebalm of morning, the radiant dew 
and the vrerdant foliage, until, but for the solidity of his figure and 
a few other circumstances, they must have thought themselves 
traveling with the laureate or some ottier divine bard. However, 
he ate large buttery sandwiches, and partook of strong drinks at 
the Bull’s Head, therein showing himself human; lie liad also, on 
his American travels, assimilated certain unpleasant New World 
customs. 

He detailed with appalling vividness an accident that had once 
taken place on that ver}^ coach, while the postman w’as carefully 
driving down the steep place where it happened; he pointed out to 
Tante the spot where a lady, sitting on tlie box-seat, w\‘is killed, and 
a lady and gentleman sitting behind her were maimed for life, and 
several other ladies lost their beauty and received no compensation. 

” Professor Skinflint’s carriage broke dowm here yesterday,” 
continued he, in less tragic tones; the professor was an intellectual 
foe. 

‘‘ Was the lady hurt?” asked Adrian, anxiously. 

They were wuirm on the track now. 

” Only a few bruises, 1 believe; but the specimens they had col- 
lected rolled in all directions, and the whole countr}’^ was out with 
wheelbarrows expecting rewards for the salvage.” 

Of course, the stout man was very 'Wordsworthian at Rylstone 
as he pointed out the white doe’s course over Barden Fell; and 
Tante marveled more and more, ami wondered if they were to take 
him as the typical Yorkshiicman of the period, when, on seeing a 
number of boys drawn up in a shed near Lynton Bridge, she iu- 
quiretl if the School Board had much to do down this way? He 
shortly answered ” No,” and dc'seended from the coach. 

“Wonderful man that,” said the driver, who again found his 
tongue. “ The cleverest schoolmaster in all the country is Mr, 
Smack well, ain’t he. Bill?” to a young man behind, who winked in 
assent. 

” The murder is out, we have been traveling wdth the great Mj. 
Squeers,” sairl Tante, aside; ” that explains everything.” 

” He would naturally relish the luce lucellum joke, and hate Mr. 
Lowe,” said Adrian. 

“ How long it lives in his memory,” said Tante. 

“ A Latin joke is a good lasting article,” said Adrian. 

There w'as a quiirler of an hour’s halt at Grassington. which 
Adrian industriously employed in making inquiries concerning the 
professor. Opinions differed as to his route; some said he was gone 
to Settle. ® 

” To settle where?” asked Adrian, who thought it would be 


A Dill A BRIGHT. * 

pleasant to have lodgings near the Voice, so as to be able to make 
excursions with her, learn her tastes, and, above all, see her face. 

“ Settle is a proper noun here and no verb,” said Tante, who 
knew this by Black’s ” Guide,” and had recently been in the com- 
pany of a schoolmaster. 

” Do you mean that the horrid thing is a place? Then tell me 
the longitude.” 

But better-informed people came hurrying up to say the profes- 
sor was not gone to Settle, but to Inglesborough, by way of Kettle- 
well and Buckdeu Bike, and to offer bits of rock and other treasures 
spilled purposely from one of the wheelbarrows, and which they 
now wished to be rewarded for restoring; along with other scraps 
and mineral chips picked up at odd places, which appeared to them 
equally precious. Adrian saw his way to an ingratiatory introduc- 
tion. and tilled his hat and pockets with these minerals, expending 
all his change in payment therefor. They imposed upon him 
flagrantly with amateur selections, the stones being all equally 
worthless in a sculptor’s eyes. But he bargained diligently until 
they remounted the Kettlewell mail-coach, now exchanged for a« 
light, i-ough wagonette, with a veteran postman in addition to their 
talkative driver. 

The scenery was pleasing, though scarcely attaining to the ideal 
landscape of the school-master, outvying to his ‘‘ personal knowl- 
edge the Swiss Alps, and the whole continent of America.” 

Kilnsey Crag is its chief physical feature, for Upper Wharfedale 
has not the varied and romantic beauty of Wharfe’s banks by Bol- 
ton Abbey. The dale opens out into the wide series of the Conis- 
ton pastures, clothed with rich herbage; the different ownings being 
divided by long stone walls. This is characteristic of Yorkshire, 
and explains the prosperity of Leeds, Rochdale, and other towns, 
dependent on the woolen trade. 

The t:ostal arrangements amused them greatly. Here and there 
the postman would descend and m^^steriously approach a dead w\all, 
and, on removing an almost invisible bit of wood drop the letters 
into this primitive letter-box. The}' next accosted a tiny post-cart, 
with three little boys and a baby in it, whiidi was ironically styled 
the ” Glaskie mail.” The old postman from some neighboring vil- 
lages, on taking charge of a very large mail-bag, said, 

“ There’s nowt in it.” 

“ Na, I didn’t want you to be kill with delivering letters to- 
day,” said the man wdio gave it, grinning. 

Tante saw that these simple people were easily amused. The 
laughing-gas was ‘‘in the air. ‘It is the seasoning as does it.’ 
The fun is in the fresh oxygen.” 

At a place called Thro-tle-nest, a small boy in fustian panted in 
with a brown-paper letter, tied up with a bit of siring. ‘‘ Must 
be quick,” then says the driver; and the small lad aets bewildered 
about his change. Everybody else laughed ju'odigiously, of course. 

Our friends w'ere now the only travelers by the mail, and were 
told the name and family history of all the dwellers in those parts, 
particularly of the JMr. Sharps, in whom they were supposed to 
take an intense interest. Adrian gazed eagerly all round the hori- 
zon, looking for a possible carriage, with a beauty wearing a blue 



40 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


veil in it, while Tante j^athered statistical information to write in- 
stinctively about to hei husband and eldei children. 

She learned that the land hereabout is four pounds an acre the 
good ground, and two pounds the inferior. The holdings are of 
large range, often of three and four thousand acres. Tlie cattle 
grazed here are “ the real stoof,” and right splendid beasts. A good 
deal of hay is made, but root crops are not much cultivated. Beef 
io tenpence a pound, prime cut; lamb, scvenpence; butter, two 
shillings and twopence a roll of twenty-four ounces; and then the 
postman and driver launched out into the ocean of politics. 

“ Who’d vote for a twelve-shilliug a-week man?” 

‘‘Na, na.” 

” They are very conservative here,” said Tante to Linda. ” Un- 
like those of our Pateley Bridge friends’ neighboiSiood.” 

‘‘ But here the holdings are different,” said Adrian, ” There are 
no small freeholds. These people are tenants of great loids, such 
as the Duke of Devonshire.” 

At Kettlewell they heard again of the Skinflints. The}'' were gone 
on to Clapham. This was vexatious; and Adrian, who begini to 
feel his pockets uncomfortable, and his lu;t a burden, transferred as 
much as he could of his mineral wealth to one pocket and threw 
away the rest. The country round Kettlewell is very interesting 
to the geologist, as is the whole Craven district. Tlie name Craven is 
derived from the British Craig-vau, district of rocks, -as the school- 
master told them. The guide-book also mentioned this, without 
gaining their attention. It is good country for the angler, and very 
good to have been seen by the general traveler; but it is not so de« 
ligbtful to the artist as many other parts. Therefore, when Adrian 
proposed to continue the pursuit of those vanishing quantities, the 
Skinflints, as far as Btiekden Pike. :\Irs. Bright put no obstacle in 
the way of their going on; besides, it was as well that she and 
Linda siiould see both Kettlewell and Buckden, so as to make their 
choice of a halting-place, even if Adrian should persist in following 
the fugitives to Clapham, or further. 

So they drove on to Buckden, a place very similar to Kettlewell; 
and here they found that on account of Skipton Pair, and ” t’ horse 
fair t’ Hawes,” there was no possibility of getting on to Ingleton 
Fells or Clapham that night, and only a shadowy chance of a con- 
vey iinee for about eight miles of the way. as far as Gear Slones or 
Cam Fell, whence they wotild have to walk the rest of the way, 
and it would be very hat (1 to find it besides. Linda shrank from 
this effort, and thought they would arrive quicker on tludr hunting 
ground if they returned wilh the mail, and look the train for Chqr* 
ham that evening. This, then, she ]X!rsnaded her aunt to do; but 
Adrian, emptying bis pocket of all but one specimen, to serve as an 
introduction to the Skinflints when he should have found them, set 
off on foot in quest of the professor, telling his aunt he should 
most likely meet them again at Clapham. 

Adrian gone, there seemed not much to be done after their second 
breakfast of beef and beer, but walk up a hillside to look at the 
country, and talk climatolog}' with a gardener who took iireat pride 
in his out-door fuclisie.s, and a superlatively fine snccin)en of the 


ADRIAN HRIGHT. 41 

tropcelum speciosum, clothiu^ a wall with its scarlet flowers and 
beautiful blue seeds; and then wait for the mail. 

“ Flowers are the real test of a climate after all that meteorologists 
have said and tabulated,” said Tante. 

The drive back to ttKipton was as amusing as the former; only 
the flrst part of this was performed in a cart painted blue, which 
the liberal government, so the legend ran, had purchased for her 
majesty, second-hand, of a butcher. 

All the people came out with their letters wdien the postman’s 
horn was heard. The little holes in the wall were visited; the Glas 
kie mail w^as in wuiiting again; mites of children came with their lit- 
tle scraps; here was a batch of funeral cards, there a packet full of 
hideously difficult addresses, accompanied b}’’ much- copper change, 
and each local squire’s mail-bag was hung in succession round the 
postman’s neck. 

Then they began to meet the people on their return from Skiptou 
Fair, including, of course, the Mr. Sharps; and the winked and 
'wreathed smiles of the returning marketers were Burleigh-like in 
their comprehensive meaning. Shocking accounts were given of the 
people at V Hawes fair,” the mildest term applied to them was 
that they were ” a haddish nest of thieves,” such a contrast to the 
virtuous Skiptonians and the estimable freeiuenters of Skiptou cattle 
fair; and the male passengers by the mail-coach fancied everybody 
they met must be drunk; which seemed as likely to be the case with 
themselves.* so freely did they indulge in cordials at the Bull’s Head. 
Skipton was quite quiet again on their return; the sheep were sold, 
the caravan of wild beasts was gone, as were the fat boy. the walk- 
ing skeleton, and the menagerie; and people were sweeping the 
street where the sheep-pens had been. All of life they saw besides 
was the troop of female wool-carders returning home from the 
factory; ahid this closed their day’s experience of the woolen trade 
of Yorkshire. 

They took the train to Clapham, where, to their consternation, 
they found there %vas another fair; and it was only by the landlady 
at the station giving up her own rooms, that Mrs. Bright and Linda 
could be housed at all, for it was very late, and, had they not both 
looked extremely tired with their drive of near!}’’ forty miles, she* 
would have sent them away. And they must needs go to Clapiiam, 
rushing upon their fate. Clapham, ominous name, suggestive of 
that other Clapham, where stout ladies unused to railway complica- 
tions are huiried off to catch a train already screeching on the 
wrong side of fifty lines of rail, and told all in one breath to cross 
to platform No. 3, cro down No. 6, cross a dark-tunneled corridor, 
up No. 9, and look alive! Look alive! How can they? Most of 
them would look dead before gaining No. 9 at all. 


CHAPTER Vlll. 

Portrait charmant, portrait de mon amie, 

* * >!t >U if if 

Portrait cruelle, tu me fais couler des larmes.” 

“ And so we are really at Clapham Junction!” said IMrs. Bright, 
as she walked out on this summer like morning with her niece and 


42 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


sketcli-book. “ What’s in a name? Would this pretty village, the 
only village vce have seen in Yorkshire, be any prettier if named 
Stratford, and its little beck the Avon, instead of the Clap?” 

The village is a good mile and a better half from the railway junc- 
tion, and as they approached it everything looked wide awujke with 
expectation of the fun of the fair, though its normal condition is 
probably sleepy; its gray cottages basking in the sunshine among 
their floVers and bowers on eillier side of the sparkling little beck, 
which has just murmur enough to Inll the villagers, and not quite 
euoimh to remind the visitors to. Ingleborough Caves that here and 
there is a pretty waterfall. 

“The very names above the shop-fronts fall in pleasantly with 
the primitive local dialect,” said Mrs: Bright, pointing out an in- 
scription ‘‘ TA FAIIADAY ” opposite Ann Chew Cfipsticks’ odds- 
and-ends shop; ” where are sold pepper^ godly hooks, tobacco, 
mouse-snaps and other sweetmeats.” Ta Faraday’s happened to be 
the post otlice, and Linda was looking at the miscellaneous collec- 
tion of goods in the window as Tante w’as asking. 

” And now wdiere is Adrian? Are we to pass our whole lime in 
huntmg one another?” 

A telegram addressed to Mrs, Bright caught Linda’s e3'e; it was 
from Adrian, and dated Ingleton. 

He had heard of the professor’s intention to explore Ingleborongli 
Cave, and so he meant to stand outside the cavern to await his exit. 

” Ah, Adrian does not care to he s'nut up in the dark again eveu 
with the same fair lady,” and Tante laughed merrily at his precau- 
tion. 

‘‘ In case she gets lost in the cave, he can go in and find her. It is 
his turn to do the rescuing,” said Linda. 

The top of Tngleborough mountain being their bourn, they did not 
linger at Clapham longer than enough to remember the pretty place 
by, but tOv')k the midday train to Ingleton. Once at the station, they 
found, however, that in noise and hopeless muddle of trains one 
^ Clapham Junction very much resembles another; and they feared 
"they should be left behind, after all. among the crowd of graziers 
and .John Browdies, with liockey sticks cut from the hedge, as is 
, the fashion here, who w^ere going to another horse fair. As at this 
northern Clapham they have no luggage labels, Mrs. Bright was 
sorely exercised by looking after Linda’s luggage; for, like many 
other high-^oiiied girls — and they are not uncommon — Linda haled 
to travel witliont a"^ gentleman to take care of her, which meant to 
pet her with wraps and illustrated papers, and be responsible for 
rV her portmanteau; so, failing a gentleman to wait upon her her aunt 
had to take all the trouble; 

Here, at Clapham, they found the typical John Bull— Punch’s 
John Bull — indeert, he represents tlie bulk of the population here- 
abouts, with his miLdity waistcoat, red cheeks and wliiskers, good- 
natured, bat kiiock-mc-down-if*you like-to-tiy expression, and 
coat, often a swallow-tail, of ilie briglitcst beetle-green, whicb quite 
shines witli golden edges in tlie sunlight, hockey-stick in hand, of 
-course. There are few varieties; they differ only iu gradation of 
size — large, huge, gigantic. 

Dismay seized the two artists on finding Ingleton to be the capital 


ADRIAX BRIGHT. 


4a 

of a colliery district; that it also had a large factory with a tall 
chimney overtopping the tall viaduct. The village itself is stiff, 
slate-roofed, steep, stony, and stupid, though scarcely sleepy, like 
Clapham, for the machinery keeps it awakt\ 

“How unlike dear Clapham!” said Tante, laying the satirical 
stress on the “ dear.” They had so scouted the name of Clapham. 

“ Can it be that our large and shaggy Yorkshire friends have 
turned guileful too, that they recoinmeud us such a place as this?” 
asked Linda, ruefully. “ Barden Tower was also highly recom- 
mended to us.” 

“ 1 will never believe them capableof such baseness,” said Tante; 
“ there is more here than meets the eye. Depend upon it, there are 
revelations in store; let us reconuoiter,” and she led the way to 
where a irate opened on a trrass}' valley, divided by a road leading 
up the slope of the Great Whernside, along which thej'' made their 
way in the teeth of a gale of wind and stormy showers, entangling 
Ihenielves in woodland pathways at such times as they caught sight 
or sound of a beck or a “ force as a waterfall is called in York- 
shire — and then returned contented, to pass down the hill again, for 
they could admire on their left hand across the valley the grand 
form of Ingleborough, resting like a couchant sphinx with its head 
among the rosy clouds, and its base bathed in deep glo. m, only 
illumined by the light reflecting itself in the waters of the little 
beck as it bubbled by the roots of the fir-trees below their feet. 

“ Fancy those heavy countrymen having the taste to appreciate 
sceneiy of this sort,” said Linda, who was deeply impressed by tiiet 
grandeur of this view. 

“ Or the discriminalior. to know that We were likely to admire 
it. Thf re must be something more than mere good-nature in those 
men. Next time you meet Ursa Minor, Linda, you 'must not snub 
him so unkindly as you did at Bolton.” 

“ He bored me with his attentions and it is a mistake to encour- 
age uncultured people to talk; they are sure to vulgarize one’s 
ideas.” 

“ Uncultured!” said Tante, in a tone that meant much, and she 
looked again at Ingleborough ’s massive outline, with the bauds of 
its geological stratificaliou sloping up like a giant staircase from 
earth to heaven, and she quoted — 

“ ‘ Oh, many ai*e the poets that are sown 

By Natui-e ! men endowed with liighest gift — 

The vision and the faculty divine. 

* * * * * ' 

Yet through lack 

Of culture and the inspiring aid of books 
.... go to the grave uuthought of.’ ” 

“ Perhaps there was something grand in that barn corner which 
the Guileful One raved about so much,” said Linda, in a tone of 
rejoinder. 

That was mere affectation.” 

The storms passed tiw’ay in the niffht, leaving a fine, calm morn- 
ing, very favorable for the ascent of Ingleborough, the lion of the 
neiirhborhood, which, although some twenty feet lower than its 
neighbor, the Great Wheruside, is much better situated for an ex- 


44 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


tensive vie^\ and its flattened summit enables one to take in the 
sea on both coasts, and the three counties of Yorkshire, Lancashire, 
luid Westmoreland, at a ejlance. 

They furnished themselves with abundant directions as to the 
way up. and all the directions disagreed. They were told by some 
to avoid Mrs. Snook’s farmhouse, by otliers, told to make for it, 
M’hile there were no means of recognizing the dwelling in question. 
They were to keep b}'' a wall on the right and a irate on the left, and 
across a green, where all was pasture-land, and instructed until they 
dill not know their right hand from their left. 

At length, as they were beginning to go very wrong, with their 
usual luck they met a horseman, who gave them fresh directions; 
but, seeing their looks of bewilderment, he accompanied tliem to 
the riglit path, promising to give them “ a fair shirt, so that they 
might have a better chance,” told them to make for a particular 
gate, and departed, accompanied by their blessings. 

Soon another difficulty presented itself, for there was a choice of 
gates, and. in the solitude they found so characteristic of Yorkshire 
at other than fair time, they were about to select the most wrong 
of five, when a man hailed them from a hill-top, and pointed out 
the right gate. 

” This is what has so often happened toiisin Yorkshire,” observed 
Tante, ” for with the aid of map and compass we certainly have a 
great gift of going wrong; when lo! in the most intense solitude, 
suddenly a human being appears, whose final cause seems to be to 
act as our finger-post; he appears by magic, and, having fulfilled 
his mission, vanishes again into space.” 

As far as it went, and it went rather far too, their present path 
was unmistakable, being hemmed in closely between two high stone 
■walls; but, once again on the moorland, they, as usual, out of two 
paths chose the wrong one, and found themselves by the very farm- 
house they had been warned by the majoiity to shun. 

It was a very picturesque cottage, and, indeed, their ideal of 
farmhouse lodgings, so the}^ approached it with the view of enter- 
ing into negotiations with its inhabitants, a good opening being fur- 
nished by their requiring more directions as to the waj'' up the 
mountain. 

Linda tried to open the garden gale; it w'as locked and railed up. 
Tante went rounil to the back-door. They called aud shouted. 
No answer; the house w’as hermetically sealed. 

” Shall we seize upon it, and make it our own?” asked Tante. 

” Yes, certainly, for we could sketch beautifully from the win- 
dows.” 

” And the beck outside would supply us with drink,” said Tante, 
in mock meditation, ” but we have not a morsel of food with us, 
and the vegetables in the garden cannot be trusted to sustain life.” 

Disappointed, they pushed on, and, at the moment their renewed 
doubts of the way were gravest, sliepherds appeared on the scene 
for the purpose of setting them right. 

“I now begin to have ample confidence in our destiny,” said 
Tante, as she began vigorously climbing, first through the boggy 
heather, and then up the stony slopes of the mountain while Linda, 
like ” panting care, toiled after lier in vain.” Mrs. Bright wmrked 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


45 


every year ainons: mountain scenery, iu Alpine or less hackneyed 
regions, wliile Linda had seldom ascended a niouiitain on fool ; and 
Ingleborough affords two thousand feet of creditable climbing. 
“ There are hiimaii beings on the top,” cried Tante; “courage, 
Linda, a long pull and a strong pull and you will be rewarded, for 
1 behold — a blue veil floating in the wind!” And she soon set foot on 
the breezy mountain-top, followed by Linda at about a quarter of an 
hour’s interval. Mrs. Bright had already entered into conversation 
with Professor Skinflint and the lady wdiose blue veil no longer 
concealed the chiseled charms on whicli Tante gazed with attentive 
interest, and wdjose decided aquiline features and fluent speech 
proclaimed her kindred wdth the parrot 'family. Mrs. Bright mo- 
mentarily expected to hear tlie professor, who w^as affectionately 
-solicitous about her health, address his wife as “ l^olly,” bijt w^as 
surprised at hearing her called “ Angelina.” Was this really 
Adrian’s angel? The voice was a remarkable one. The figure w’as 
active and slender. Well, she w'as a married woman, so the affair 
could go no further iu any case. 

While the whole party took in plenty of geography and fresh air, 
making out the mountains, the seas, Ripon and possibly York Cathe- 
drals, and finding that Pateley Bridge w^as really the center of all 
things, as they had conjectured, Tante, under cover of her sketch- 
book, furtively executed a portrait of iNlrs. Skinflint, whose pointed 
nose was, perhaps, preternalurally reddened by the abundant oxygen 
of the mountain-top; an effect which imparted a glow to her por- 
trait, and contrast! d fineh'’ with the azure veil. 

When the professor was not affectionate, he was dismal — most 
frequently both; and he seemed to leave professorship mainly to his 
wife, who did a good deal in that way while he rambled about 
gathering a great basketful of promiscuous stones. During this 
time. Tante, from a good-natured motive, tried to gather from Mrs. 
Skinflint if they had or had not met her nephew' at the mouth of 
tlie Ingleborough Cave; and she conjectured from the replies that 
the Skinflints must liave entered the cavern before Adrian arrived, 
and left it, after an exhaustive exploration, by another exit; leav- 
ing, most probably, die romantic Adrian to cool his ardor by stand- 
ing sentry for hours in the wu-ong place. The portrait finished 
(Tante made it a speaking likeness for Adrian’s sake), and Linda 
frozen by the cutting wdnd, the}^ bade farewell to the Skinflints, 
now absorbed deeply iu digging and measurements, and descended 
upon Chapel-le-Dale. 

The base of Ingleborough is a stratum of rotten and fissured 
limestone, sharp at the edges and flattened at the lops of the slabs, 
whose interstices are filled wdth grass and ferns, and one hops from 
one slab to another easily, Tiie scenery on this side is most peculiar, 
besides being wild and desolate. 

“ It is like a lava-field, where the lava has cracked and shrunk in 
cooling,” said .Mrs. Bright. “ It reminds me of my journey across 
Thingvalla, iu Iceland.” 

As they descended still further, the rocks became more broken 
and precipitous, with grass terraces between the rocky strata. Hero 
they found fine stag’s-horn moss, numerous varieties of crimson 
and buff fungi, and many delicate ferns among the sharp edges of the 


46 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


limestone. Tante thoiiirht ot her children and the fernery at home 
on the leads at Welbeck btreet, and filled her pockets with tiie ferns 
and mosses; and then they hastened on ward and otiward, hoping still 
to have time c.iough logo round by Ingleborongh Cave, and hd Adrian 
judge by the portrait if it were worth his while following the ori^nnal 
tlirough every mountain and monument in Yorkshire, and waiting 
an unlimited lime at every cavern or cathedral door in hope of liancT- 
ing her to her carriage. Besides this, they also wanted to save the 
post, though this was a secondary consideration. Just as luck would 
have it however, a man came up with them driving a wagon, and a 
cart tied on behind it. TJie man told them of a gate in what had 
seemed an interminable wall; he opened- it for them, and offered 
them a lift into Ingleton in the supplementary cart, filling it for 
their gTcater ease with sacks and horse cloths. 

hat would IMrs: Nugent and Hermlone say if they saw’ their 
cousin traveling in this distingushed style?” said Linda who w«s 
in good spirits with the success of their excursion, the linexpected 
plainness of the veiled lady, the convenience of the lift in the cart 
and the certainty of being in time for the post; for the jolly wao-oner 
passed the postman trudging along the road, and, with true York- 
shire hospitality, offered him the box-seat of the w’agon. And still 
more delighted were they both when Adrian met them at the hotel 
door, and assisted them to alight from their carriage, and shared with 
them the well-earned roast duck. They gladdened him by the sight 
of^the interesting. Angelina’s portrait. * * 

Will you follow the Skinflints any further?” asked Linda 
with malice. ' 

” No; let us go to Leeds and see the cousin.”. 


CHAPTER IN 

“ — the tower of Bowes, 

Like steel upon the anvil fjlows: 

And Stanniore’s ridjsre behind that la3’, 

Rich witli the spoils of parting da\’, 

In crimson and in gold array’d, 

Btreaks yet awhile the closing shade.”’ 

Rokehy. 

^ w’l not care for Leeds; besides, my cousins are 

Hie TeesL7” '''' to ^pl^re 

‘/That dial ming man, the fisherman at Bolton, told me he was 
Barnard Castle,” said Adrian; ” do you wish to meet him 

If I did, it would be for vengeance,” returned Linda. “He 
neai ]y caught us in the trap of Banien Tower,” 

“ His amiable disposition leads him to admire the wron<^ thimrs 
as a rule; his sweetness hinders his light.” ” 

1 ^^^ ja odious, ’ said Linda. ‘‘A cockney can’t help being a 

meetTfr;!.” “ 

glan™^®^ lie wants to meet you,” said Adrian, with a shrewd 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 47 

“ Will yon go with us, Adrian?" asked his aunt, looking up from 
her letter. 

“ Willingly, until my Voices call me away," 

They made their way across count ry without further adventure 
to Barnard Castle, w’here several eventless days sped noiselessly 
away. 1'his was, perhaps, the pleasantest part of their tour; for, 
though a mere tourist does not understand the quiet of the country 
whose monotony is only broken by the passage of the sliadows from 
left to right, that pendulum of the sun tilling all the chronology, to 
a real worker it is event enough to know a leisure hour, and have 
the oppoitunity of tilling it with the poetry of nature, poured in 
through eve anci brain as the w'eary heiid lies pillowed on the per- 
fumed grass. Oh, those liappy hours when living does itself, when 
nature works her beneficent round without one’s self turning the 
handle! Tante was as busy as the bees in those bright days, as 
next yeni’s exhibition W’alls will testify, and gathered as much 
honey from the flowers. If the others were less busy — well, there 
are many other reasons besides idleness for doing nothing, 

]\Iarket day at Barnard Castle made Tante unable to resist the 
teiniRation to stay at home and sit at the wdndow of the sitting- 
room at the King’s Head, sketching the .market groups, the cattle, 
the geese, and the Cheap Jacks shouting, lowing, Iwi^sing, and 
coaxing their noisiest in front of IMaster IIuirr])hrey’s Clock and 
otner shops — Dickens’s Master Humphrey, as everybody knows. All 
the carts and gigs, the substance ancl gentility of the neighborhood, 
were drawn up in neat rows in the shadow of the dark -pillared 
market cross, w^iiose blackness makes all the blighter tho canvas 
booths, full of cheese, fruit, b.ats, and drapery goods, emulating the 
gay brilliancy of the blue-and-scarlet' drag, with its four chestnut 
steeds, polished with the curry-comb and glittering with brass har- 
ness, that stands at the door of the King’s Head, wuiiting to take up 
Linda Fraser and Adrian Bright, with a merry party, bound for a 
day’s excursion in the Rokeby district. The horn sounds, Scott’s 
poem is carefully stowed aw\ay with the rest of the provisions, and 
the driver, having fastened his gloves, gathers up the reins. Linda 
Fraser, on the box-seat, nods up at Tante, weaving her baud to them, 
the driver lifts his hat with a smile, and off the}’’ go. 

The driver of the drag is the Guileful Artist of Biimham Rocks, 
the amateur of barn angles, the fisherman of Bolton, the enthusiast 
of Bar-den Towner, Mr. Prothero-Wilson, of Roehampton and the 
city of London, and he now stands in the better light of a rich ac- 
quaintance and possessor of a w’ell-appointed carriage, etc. 

Tante sat still at the open wdndow’, w-rapjied in an antimacassar, 
sketching busily, but possibly more absorbed in thinking what might 
come of all this, for this w-as not the first drive that Linda and 
Adrian had taken in JMr. Prothero- Wilson’s drag; indeed, Tante 
herself had been out with them once or twice. Scarcely had our 
party been a day in the hotel at Barnard Castle before the admirer of 
J3arden Tow’er was there also, and appareiitly not in a position to be 
snubbed, nor to have vengeance wreaked upon him. Was Mrs. 
Bright liiinking that this might eventually swell her catalogue of 
adventures, or did she think that her whilom plan of helping for- 
ward a marriage between her niece and Adrian Bright must now be 


48 


ADRIAls^ BRIGHT. 


let drop to the p;round? Anyway, she was thinking very deeply of 
something, or she would not have been so startled, when the waiter 
opened the sitting-room door, as to let her w’ater-color box fall to the 
floor w'ith a crash and, topsyturvying, spill an unnecessary wash 
from her w'ater-glass over her sketch (resiiliing, of course, by and 
by in what painters call a happy accident of effect, but wdiich is not 
to the present purpose). 

On a card she read “Mr. T. Esdaile,” and, looking round, she 
saw the ver}’' large, good-natured Yorkshireman she had laughingly 
styled Ursa IMajor. He had got their names epiite pat, for he ad- 
dressed Tante as Mrs. Bright, and asked with kindly interest for 
Miss Fraser. 

He seemed to want to unburden himself, yet w'as unable to begin. 
Contrary to his usual large manner to-rnatch-himself w^ay of con- 
versing, broad in accemt, broad in view, he minced his talk like a. 
jmung lady, fenced uHout the weather, and petted Tante about her 
drawing. 

“ In fact, Mrs. Bright,” he burst out at length, apropos of noth- 
ing, but in his own familiar voice, gruff and hearty, “you know 
George Raby.” 

Mrs. Bright guessed this might be Ursa Minor. 

“ Is that the najne of the friend we met with you?” 

He nodded assent. 

“ Well, ma’am, George Raby — honest George Raby and w’ell to- 
do George Raby — is dying of love for your niece, and — he*s afraid 
of her! — afraid to ask her to be the wife of the best man in Y'ork- 
shire!” 

Tante was astonished, and looked so, saying, 

“ 0.^” not the Latin vocative capital O, but the Arabic 0 which 
stands for naught. 

“Now, ma’am, I can’t stand by and see him dismally melt, 
evaporate in , sighs— for he’s losing flesh, ma’am, is good George 
Raby— without helping him at a pinch, as he would me. So 1 
found out you were here. Georere Raby lives not many miles here- 
from; he has a nice place, too, and yet it is the least of the worldly 
goods he would endow her with — ” 

“What can 1 do to help you?” said Tante. “ 1 am only Miss 
Fraser’s aunt. Why does not Mr. Raby ask herself?” 

He answered, seriously, in his deep, double-bass voice, 

“ Ma’am, 1 know women, some sorts of women, and 1 know Miss 
Fraser’s sort; he’d ask her, she’d say ‘ No;' he’d at it again, she’d 
stick to no, for the only reason that it was the word of her choice. 
She’s sugar, 1 don’t doubt it, but she must be melted beforehand, if 
he'd have a chance of knowing it by the taste. Now, suppose, 
ma’am — but you don’t care for wdiat I’m saying half as much as 
you do for your bothering — I mean, your beautiful picture there.” 

Cheap Jack w'as packing up to go, the market was nearly over; it 
did seem a pity to lose it all. A sudden rough pathos came into 
his tone. 

“ But then you don’t know w^hat a good fellow^ George Raby is — 
so clever! such principles! no humbug~i licked everything of that 
sort out of him myself at school; such a tine fellow at heart, and 
not small at all reall}', stands just over six feet in his stockings, and 


49 


adhia:^ bi:iuht. 

such a nice little property !-freeliolil too iitxl lie-(lamn him-lie 
don’t marry my sister, but takes ou like this for a stiangei. 

Ta.rcould^not l.elp being a little loucbed; here was such evi- 

dent sacrifice of a brother iii-law. ^ ^ 

“ But if I say I will uot staml m Jus way, that 1 will not set her 

liim 18 wliBit voii ^ , 

jNLa’am he drew a chair; it creaked with his weight, as chairs 
usually did' so he took no notice, but continued to balance d on its 
front h*gs; lie lowered his voice, “ i’ve ^‘‘‘tcned a p lot Mi^s 
is romantic George is uncommonly romantic 1 So am i! 've re au 
ft’s the nature of Yorkshiremeu to be romantic. 

ATrs Brifdit had uot found this out for heiselt. 

“sowe'Tl imke a mystery fit for a play. _You must say you 1 
brluS her out to see au okl friend ; rye’ll send m a trap ^ ‘1“ 
steoDino- liorsu; Boots here shall drive, ami shall make it look dan- 
serous— that is. just dangerous enough to frighten a Lomlon >ady. 

B, mu knows the ..rare; Georp will ope,, “m,'' m,,'. he^ to^v 
cflvp ilipin from a oluuge; shell scream; hell briii;, hei t 
bmndy anVCnt f revive, they’ll have an exp ana- 

UDII, uadci-sland each other, and we’ll 

o-ether That will have a tine, romantic taste about it, 1 think. 

^ Xante agreed to this (having nothing else to suggest) provided t l e 
dau<Ter should be slrictly of a shadowy or romantic nature. ® 

large embassador took his leave, flattering 

weU when he made a\lrs. Bright promise to bring her niece to Baby 
Hall next day in a certain four-wheeled dog- cart, keeping the name 
S 111^0 wneJ ’of the vehicle a profound secret. , A.II of which was 
done and the programme was performed exactly as Hi. 
had arnu'^ed it^ until it came to the dramatic point of the sudden 
datixer a.Td the consequent savi.ig of life; for George Rahy ™'ssed 
meeUnx the trap at the' fatal ditch, and o,> his ope.ung the back- 
door o'? the vehicle at his own gate, .md‘‘'"f d dTo^eKl 

T infUi Ft-i«pv merely said. How do you do.^ ana, i aiu uoi ^.v 
nect to meet you here,” in a composed tone of voice, necessitating 
neither brandy, feathers, nor any subsequent ^ ' 

derstanding; s^o the dinner itself became au auti-climax without the 

amo^its V iS dwellings standing high on three raised terraces 
w?fh Li s It ir Lwals. The house, built of dark, irregu ar-shaped 
^oL with c^ and dressings of l)lue granite was nearly 
envere’d with Vir^duia creeper, rose-s, and the scailet-beined ps < 
callus ami all this was reflected iu two large fishpom s, ou differ- 
ent levels, nearly covering wlmt would otherwise have JJ’ 

me G^u^ls" pla^ 0f"riS^ 

lTnds!''lhere they startetl whole coveys of grouse, and reveled in 


oO 


ADRIAX BRIGHT. 


and fully believed, was, in pre-historic strata of time, an’ estuary of 
vast size, another Humber inlet, but which now only carries the 
Tees river foamine; through the land. 

When iVJr, Esdaile saw Ids fiiend in full sail of conversation with 
3liss Fraser he treated Mrs Briiriit to a lecture on history and geog- 
raphy, taking for his text the view before them, calling it “ a 
panorama of the history of England from the earliest ages.” After 
the story of the estuary aforesaid, he brought his narrative down to 
the time when “ the Romans maile their camp on that artificial hil- 
lock of green turf, where the Norman castle of Bowes novvstands. ” 

“ As on a well-squared pedestal,” said Tante. 

“ The straight Roman Road froni Eborac.um to Carlisle stretched 
across this valley.” He looked ahead to see that the love affair was 
going on satisfactorily, and proceeded: 

“ Then came the Danes, who took ea#?y possession of this broad, 
fertile dale, and named the places after Ihemselves and their own 
heroes — Thor’s Gill, the Balder Beck, and the list of Runic names 
that Scott gives us in ‘ Rokeby.’ The Danish termination ‘ by ’ is 
in general use — Rokeby and Raby ” — he noilded toward the back of 
his friend George, who seemed to be pleading his own cause warm- 
ly — “ Whitby, Gilmonby, and many uiore. Bowes Castle was given 
by William the Conqueror to Alain of Brittany. I could tell you a 
great deal more about Balliol ami the wars of our first Edward, 
"Only I might bore 3 mii.” 

He really had a touch of romance about him, or else he would 
not liave nibbed up his school-book lore so brightly. 

“ You do not bore me in the least. 1 am greally interested.” 

“ In which history?” he asked, with a keen look. ‘‘In mine, 
which is mostly taken second-hand from George Raby— who is 
more of a reader than I am,” he admitted, with refreshing candor; 

” or in what is going on before us?” 

Linda looked back, as if seeking her aunt. Tom Esdaile, observ- 
ing this, liastened to monopolize Mrs. Bright’s attention, and rais- 
ing his voice a little, he hurried on: 

” The parish church is also Norman — ” 

” AVith later additions and latest restorations, I fancy,” interrupt- 
ed Tante. 

He assented, and, waving his hand in the opposite direction, con- 
tinued ; 

” Then there is Raby ilall, the model dwelling of 

“ ‘The fine oUl English gentleman, 

All of the olden time.’ ” 

“ Decidedly,” thouglit Tante, ” Ibis man is descended from the 
Danes. I never knevv hero- worship more largely developed.” 

- “There is ‘ Stninmoor, red with many batllee;’ that tvas in a 
pretty piece of poetry George wrote at school. He has a nice, neat 
turn for poetry.” Tante silently hiughed at Linda’s abhoneuce of 
“ pretty poetry.” 

“ 1 could go on cataloguing numerous places of historical interest 
to be seen from this point (if I had not forgotten half of theml. 
until we come to the latest and most intcre^ing of ad. You see 


ADlilAX DillGHT, 51 

that small, box-sliaped house, colored with buff-wash, in a line with 
the square keep of. Bowes Castle, that is— ft-uess what that is.” 

”1 can’t.” 

“Tliat is Dotheboys Hall, the original of the mansion on the 
banks of the Greta, where boys used to be fed, lodged, clothed, sup- 
plied with pocket-money, etc!, by the immortal Mr. Squeers, whose 
name lives forever, and whose daughter lives there now, though her 
name is no longer Squeers.” 

Here the train came pulling through the scene in the direct line of 
the Roman W'^ay, the Danes march. Hnd the course of the pre-his- 
toric estuary, giving a fresh illustration of the mutability of ail 
earthly things, excepting a good line of traffic, which averages about 
four lljoiisand years’ duration; but the studious pair had no time to 
dilate upon tl)is topic, for the other ^ air had turned, and Linda, with 
her eyes flashing and color heightened, was walking swiftly toward 
her aunt, and distancing her crestfallen lover, who moved moodily 
forward, disturbing the grouse by destroying the heather with his 
hockey-stick. Linda Fraser announced her intention to return at 
once to Barnard Castle, and would have dragged lier aunt all the way 
thither on foot had not the dog-cart with ihe high-stepping mare, 
driven by Boots, overtaken tliem on the road. 

” 1 think you are over-hasty, Linda,” said her aunt, as soon as 
she had breath and opportunit}" to speak. 

” Do you know what has happened?” asked Linda, sharply. 

‘ ‘ I can g uess. ’ ’ 

” I consider myself Insulted by a proposal from a mere grazier.” 

” A highly respectable man, evidentl}'; of means and position in 
his county, Linda.” 

” A person of no refinement, no culture.” Xante thought of his 
” pretty poetry,” and smiled. 

” But you are not a princess, Linda.” 

” 1 am an artist,” returned she, haughtily, ” and an artist is the 
equal of kings.” 

” Titian was so, certainly. I don’t know about us smaller fry.” 

Linda looked grand; she could do so with effect, being five feet 
seven, with her head finely poised upon her gracefully sloping 
shoulders. Five feet seven gives an air of command which mo^l 
young vsminen cannot attain, however much they might like to look 
superior. Linda, with her fine figure, and her soul five feet seven 
to match, felt herself unutterably superior to all graziers and to the 
great body of artists, knowing herself (by her glass and her own 
aspirations) to be one of the finest of wmmeu; she could not recog- 
nize in any grazier, however fine his carcass, a soul over five feet, 
which is small for a man: nor in artists, even of the greatest among 
unmarried A.Ii.A, ’s, growth over five feet eight, and with less than 
this she could not mide. People with aspirations oftener measure 
themselves by what they mean to do than by whai they have done; 
and Linda, mistaking her vanity for ‘‘ proper jiride,” felt that the 
stuff in her raised her above the level of all the world, save and ex- 
cept only one, w’hose achievements foretold the glorious future she 
would like to share, and that one was Adiian Bright. 

This hero of her hopes met them at the door of the King’s Head. 
Ah, how^ different he looked from any Yorkshire grazier! It was 


ADRIAN BRlGiri. 


52 

Hyperion to a satyr. One was a mere Hercules, fit for any slavery, 
the other was Apollo, lord of light. She murmured to herself the 
burden of “ Locksley Hull,” 

“ ‘ having seen thee, to decline, 

On a x’ange of lower feelings and a narrower heart than thine.’ 

Never; lam not so base,” and, avoiding all attention, she fled to 
her own room, where for some time afterward she lei her ” angry 
passions rise ” in wrathful words, and vented her anger against her 
aunt for advocating the wrong lover, and against herself for being 
powerless to enchain the right lover, in quick movement, and even 
by stamping upon the floor. 

Adrian had been out fishing with Mr. Prothero- Wilson at the 
point where Athelstone Bridge crosses the Tees, and a charming 
peep of the lancet windows of Athelstone Abbey is caught high on 
the left among the trees that form one continuous bower above the 
rapid river. 

” You are back early. Aunt Lucy,” said he, observing with sur- 
prise Linda’s hasty rush up-stairs. ” Is there anything the matter 
with Linda?” 

“ She will be all right presently; there is nothing of any conse- 
qiience.” 

“ She looked angry and ill.” 

” She has taken offense at sometliing; unreasonably so, in my 
opinion,” and the soft, weak, leaky Xante, who was never long able 
to keep a secret, intrusted her nephew with the history of George 
Ruby’s hapless love affair. 

” It would not have been a bad thing for Linda, after all,” said lie, 
out of his icy heart. ” Thu man is a verv decent fellow, and you say 
he has a nice place — and, by-the-bye, there’s another thing in Ids 
favor too I meant to tell you; this Raby is the nephew of my friend, 
the philosopher of the Washburn, and stands a good chance of bring 
heir of all the Turners.” 

“ I must tell Linda that, at any rate.” 

“ And yet I don’t know that I would be too quick about advocat- 
ing Raby’s cause, either, Aunt Lucy.” It showed how little Adrian 
really cared for Linda when he could as coldly calculate for her 
benefit as if he had been her solicitor. “ 1 fiave no authority for 
saying anything, but if ever man was enchained by a woman it is 
Prothero- Wilson by Linda. He has tried hard to free himself, he 
lauglis at her art enthusiasm, plaj's tricks upon her, and amuses 
himself by turning her romantic situations into burlesque; but it is 
of no use — it is like birdlime, the more he wriggles the more his 
feathers get clogged: he is like the fly who stayed parleying with the 
spider, and found himself entrapped before he knew it.” 

” Do ymu think he is likely to propose?” Xante was greatl}’- inter- 
ested. 

“ I don’t think he wishes to do it, but it maj’’ be too strong for 
him. lie is rich, and proud of his riches, but he is still more proud 
of himself and his culture, of which he has not a vestige. He is 
made up of Cassell’s Educator, and lie likes it to be supposed he can 
do everything.” 


ADRIAN BlilGllT. 


53 


What an awful botlier 1 shall have with my dauii^hters,” said 
Tante, reflectively, “ if a niece is such a frightful responsibility.” 

“ She is anythiiig but frightful,” said Adrian, with a heart-whole 
lauffh. ” She would be one of the handsomest girls I know if ske 
Jiad but a perfectly Greek chin.” 

When Mrs. Bright found herself again alone with Linda, who 
still looked hard and resentful, she deemed it her duty as an aunt to 
put the case clearly before her, hoping for the future she would re- 
ceive offers of marriage at least with civility, and showed her that 
this was an offer at any rate not to be despised. 

” He cannot offer you a villa near London, truly ” — she looked 
keenly at her niece; Linda scorned a villa near London — ” but he 
can give you a fine ancestral home and every comfort.” 

” Food in abundance. Heaven knows, and to sickening, but starva- 
tion to the mind. Fatness and flourishing graziers may make the 
happiness of ignoble souls; to me they represent solitude and starva- 
tion.” Tln re is no one who talks taller than a young artist who 
has once exhibited a picture. 

Tante again thought of George Raby’s "pretty poetry.” 

“ Well, I should call it destiny, a missi(m, to create a point of 
interest in this wide count3\ Sec what Charlotte Bronte did for a 
drearier lot than this; she made Haworth classic ground. See what 
Turner has done for the Washburn and the Wliarfedale? Better 
be king in a village — ” Tante paused. 

” I should hardly be second in Rome, you think,” said the girl, 
bitterly. 

” But talking of Turner brings me to what I had to say. You 
heard Adrian rave about the philosopher and his Turner collection; 
this collection might one day be yours.” Linda stared. ” ^fr. 
Raby is the philosopher’s nephew; he will be his heir. It is to be 
considered; Acrian, at least, thought it might be an inducement.” 

Was this indeed all that Adrian had thought about Linda’s possi- 
ble marriage? Linda lingered over her repl}^ 

” It niaj’’ be, and possibly is, that this offer is beyond my deserts; 
but 1 cannot help it, aunt;*! could not marry that' man to save my 
life.” 

” Then, Linda, I won’t press it upon you again.” 

Linda detained her yet, 

” Let us leave this place, Tnnte, and at once. I cannot stay here, 
I must have something harder and more rugged to dash my temper 
against, and, above all, I naist get out of reach of these people. 
lYuhaps I had better go back to Loudon and work myselt into for- 
getfulness.” 

Tante thought Linda was taking the offer of an unfavored suitor 
loo much to heart: the fact was that after her first burst of anger 
she scarcely thought of ]\[r. Raby at all. It was Adrian she thought 
of, and it tortured her that Adrian and Tante should recommend 
her to marry another. Ah! luckless, luckless Linda! 




ADRlAN^ BRIGHT. 


CHAPTER X. 

“ He Avho fights and runs away, 

May live to fight another day.” 

“ So you are leaving Barnard Castle, JMrs. Bright,” said Mr. Pro- 
thero-Wilson, who had come to their room to ask the party to join 
in a dtive to Wycliffe. 

” ATs, ’ said Tante, gayly, ” this place is our Capua, and w’e 
must II3' before we bccfmie quite demoralized. AVe no longer go 
foith in quest of adventures; we rise, and lise late, to eat, to yawn, 
to paint, to 5"aw'U, and eat ami sleep again. Luxurious slaves that 
we are, w^e warm our boots before putting them on, we iounge back 
to our sketching-places, there we take as much ease as circum- 
stances will allow, and hassocks if possible, luncheon always; w^e 
return at dusk to a well-served dinner of soup, lish, game, poultry, 
puddings, cream, and sundry small tarts wdiich appear, and re 
ai)p('ar, and never disappear.” 

” Dummy tarts, I suppose,” said Air. Prothero-AVilson. 

“ISo; the fact is,” said Adrian, in explanation, “we are afraid 
to eat them.” 

” Indisestible?” asked Air. Prothero-AA'ilson. 

Adrian answered in the lone, of one telling a ghost story: 

” AVe heard, on th_e first evtninir we came, the terrible voice of a 
man demanding these tails in terrific accents, similar to those of the 
Gifinl Blundeibore when scenting flesh, or the trombone tones of 
Air. Silver Stakesby, of Barden Tower. And we have been afraid 
to touch one of them ever since. Thej" are too stale to tempt us 
much now.” 

” In he list of the luxuries w^e must fly,” continued Airs. Bright, 
” I may name feather beds, novels, a piano, a view from the win- 
dow, nianj^ and long candles, and much hot wuiler. This place is 
too comfortable for us; we will rough it out on the moors, seek a 
hardier life at High Force and the Caldron Snout, and leave off 
wallowing in luxury.” 

“ Doeslliis hardy life meet your view’s, Miss Fraser?” 

Yes, w’e liave determined upon exile, and are soon to resume 
our lif(f of vagrants and outlaw’s.” 

Air. Prothero-AA'‘ilson sat pensive. 

Tante, to make conversation, w’ent ou, in her lively style: 

” Again shall our dinner become the movable feast it was before 
W’e saw this place; not only movable, but even somewhat uncertain; 
and our variety of meals shall range again between a twopenny feed, 
as at Haythornth waite’s, and an dx roasted w’hole, as at Buckdeu 
Pike.” 

” If you will take my advice, you will cruise about among the 
villages round liere,” said Air. Prothero AVilson, He was very pre- 
cise about the Prothero genteel and hyphen territorial. ” A'ou will 
find sw'eet, peaceful scenery and studies of happy domesticity.” 

Btudy of this sort w’as not to Linda’s taste, and, to say truth, the 
whole parly were rather afraid to trust to Air. Prothero- AVi Ison’s 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


55 


Tecommcnclation. So they fouirlit olT binding their future to the 
quiet villages, and said they had committed themselves to rooms at 
High Force; and as he still seemed pensive and disinclined to work 
at conversation, which is the only way of pusliing the ball of small* 
talk uphill, they were not sorry when he took his leave, after ex- 
tracting from Tante the date when she was likely to be at Whitby, 
where he had heard Linda talk of going. 

It was, perhaps, rash of Tante to let Linda make excursions with 
Mr. Prof hero- Wilson and Adrian Bright; but an artist vvrapped up 
in a rich foreground is apt to be impervious to lesser considerations. 
Most artists ride ea>ily enough over the conventionalities, and Tante 
was pai ticularly easy-going. Jjinda herself never gave the subject 
:a thought; she went because Adiian went. Tante was destined to 
be trouble?] yet w'ith Linda’s lovers, for no sooner was Air. Prothero- 
Wilsiui gone, using one of the four chestnuts as a roadster for exer- 
cise, while he cursed the waywardness of women, than Mr. Esdaile 
was announced. 

“ Now 1 am really not at home,” said Tante;- “ I should be de- 
lighted to see you, but 1 can’t be bothered about business.” 

Tante was working for her life at her picture of the market-place, 
while the others were making preparations for the start. 

Tom Esdaile looked rueful; he augured the worst from Airs. 
Bright’s cold reception, and his whole aspect wois so crestfallen that 
Tante could not help giving him a little pity. A word, a look, was 
enough; a Yorkshireman can always improve the occasion, and bit 
by bit Tom Esdaile extracted from Tante the whole story of Idnda’s 
refusal of Baby, her reasons therefor, and gained a sketch-map of 
all the stumbling-blocks. He put in as many good words as he 
could for his friend, and learned all about the route they meant to 
ta ke. 

” I may as well tell you. Airs, Bright, that Baby has not given it 
iip;‘ Baby never gives up, a most determined man is George Baby; 
it is an element of success, ma’am, and success has not many ele- 
ments; few valuable things have; rubbish and bad cookery are full 
of odds and ends; it is not easy to find in the diamond anything but 
pure carbon: a Yorkshire breakfast is oatmeal, a Yorkshire dinner 
is beef; I leave yon to draw the inference.” 

Afr. Esdaile’s v/arm partisanship alwmys amused Tante, and per- 
sonally the big Yorkshireman wnis pleasant to her; but she was-not 
sorry when he took his have, having hewn the foothold he required 
for his next step, and filled Tante with the uneasy consciousness of 
having been leaky, and left herself liable to reproach from Linda, a 
feeling which did not pass awa}^ e_ntirely until chaeed by tlie influence 
of a charming drive through delightful scenery, rendered more per- 
fect by a dazzling display of sunshine and mountain piles of cloud 
transfigured into snow and pale fire, like poor Cecil Lawson’s land- 
scapes. Tlie road to High Force follows the woodland into the 
moorland; Alickle Fell, the highest land in Yorkshire, fills up the 
purple background. 

“Teesdale is by far the most picturesque part, of Yorkshire we 
have seen,” said Adrian, ” and, to judge by the numerous cottages 
and farm-houses, it is more thickly peopled than are many of the 
Yorkshire dales.” 


50 


ADKIAX ERIGHT. 


“ The country is comfortably cultivated/' observed Linda, *' but 
fortunately not so much as to encroach upon the beautiful brown 
moorland.” 

“ What would a practical man say to your advocating breathina- 
spaces in the country, Linda?” asked Adrian, laughing as he turned 
round on the box. 

” 1 don’t like practical men,” said she, with decision. 

“ The cottages on the Duke of Cleveland’s property are all white- 
washed, ’ said thedriver; “ it is a fancy of his; he does not like the 
gray stone farmhouses; he likes to bo able to count them as he 
X^asses.” 

*‘ The duke is a practical man,” said Adrian. 

They stopped at the High Force Inn, which they were told is used 
as a shooting-box by the Duke of Cleveland and his fri&nds. It is 
within easy reach of the High Force, a magnificent double waterfall 
of the wht)le volume of the Tees, rushing over the barrier of lime- 
stone wall, a stratum forming, as it were, a pedestal to Mickle Fell. 
This natural wall is clett at the point of the force, and the rush of 
water is divided by one noble crag called ” the Palace of the Genius 
of the lliver.” A great cloud of foam and spray rises with the 
movement of the fall as high as the cataract itself (seventy-two feet), 
and the morning liirht clothes it in rainbows. 

It was fortunately fair weather enough tor our party to en joy this 
fine scenery on the evening of their arrival, otherwise they would 
scarcely have seen it except in its swollen grandeur through tlie tor- 
rents of rain, from their windows; the fells and moorland, sky and 
fields, seemed all to throw both deep and surface drainage, and all 
their moisture, to swell the volume of the Tees as it rose and raged 
in battle-siege against the walls of the Palace of the Genius of the 
River; impotently, however, for the Tees limestone is the hardest of 
any, as the finely cut inscription on a Rokeby’s tomb at Athelstone 
Abbey still bears witness in the sharpness of its beautifully formed 
letters. 

They had little to do, and no books beyond the volume of the 
Tees aforesaid ; no letter-writing, because their literarj ardor was 
damped on healing that the post never went out more than twice a 
week (or generally not at all), and they had missed the day. Tante, 
it is true, painted watery views from every window with grand 
efiect, and Linda would have painted likewise, but as Adrian braved 
the weather in order to study the in-door life of the peasantry, and 
hear the local dialect, which is cognate with tlie Danish, Linda felt 
too unsettled to do more than order dinner, which, indeed, was soon 
done. Ah, well! all the world knows the Nveariness of being shut 
in by the weather at a place only bearable on account of its scenery, 
especially if the only being one cares about has taken himself off to 
learn the language that other people speak. 

They slept .for twelve hours or so. and for breakfast had the 
choice between broiled ham and nothing, for they do not even make 
oat-cakes in this part of the counlry." The duke brings his own 
provision stores wdlh him — doubtless a very jolly hamper— and noth- 
ing had been left behind. 

Dinner was the only event of this day, for sketching and langunge- 
learjning are not to be reckoned as events, nor is loolung out of win- 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 57 

dow, which occupied Linda, and to-day’s dinner was a counterpart 
of yesterday’s repast, roast lamb and tapioca pudding. 

“ 1 had the choice between a fore-cjuarter of lamb and part of a 
fore-quarter of lamb,” said Linda, ” and I chose the latter. It 
seems they killed a lamb lately, which is fortunate, as they have 
nothing else, no eggs, and the ham is eaten up.” 

” Tell us your adventures, Adrian,” saidTante, always ready for 
a story. 

” I met with none, but 1 talked with the descendants of heroes 
who don’t seem to carry on the work. These people were prepar- 
ing the Primitive Methodist chapel for Sunday, and they showed 
me the lending-library in the chapel. As 1 did not understand 
much of their talk, 1 suppose it was Danish; but as the books were 
English, and the subscription threepence-halfpenny a quarter and 
threepence-halfpenny cutiance fee, I subscribed for Linda’s sake.” 

Movement of joy on Linda’s part. 

” But, as the librarian was not there, 1 could not bring away an}’' 
books. ’ ’ 

” Suppose it should be a day like this to-morrow,” said Linda. 

” Don’t croak,” said Tante; ” doubtless we shall have adventures.” 

The morrow was worse than doubtful, but the immured ones had 
heard of Langdon Beck, half-way on the road to Caldron Snout, 
the remaining half-way being a bog, and they made up their minds 
to walk to this half-way cottage, house, Imtel, or water butt, or 
whatever a beck might be. Beck is really Danish for waterspout, 
in the sense of ‘‘ force mineure.” 

‘‘Tnis settled, we will tell the landlady we mean to get on to- 
day.” Tante rang. 

” All right, mum, we’ll keep your beds for you all the same; it 
ain’t likely as anybody’ll want ’em.” 

The laiullady spoke intelligible English. Rain began to pour, and 
went on pouring. They thought they could hear Mrs. Scott order- 
ing the tapioca pudding (number three) to be made tor the parties 
up stairs, and telling somebody to save the shoulder of lamb. 
Should tliey so or not? 

” Now, if They would promise us an apple-tart and cream, that 
w'ould decide us,” said Tante. 

, After ilebating and re-debating (it was such a comfort to get some- 
thing to do, so they made the most of their uncertainty), Adrian 
went out to try if ft were pos-sible to drive to this Langdon Beck. 
Yes, they could have a ” trap,” and if they did not like the rooms 
when they saw them— Mrs. Scott grinned as. she spoke— the trap 
would wait and bring them back again for the same Uioney. 

j\lrs. Scott did not couiitermnud the shoulder of lamb and tapioca 
pudding, knowing human nature well enough to be sure they v ould 
not be wa.ste(i. 

A horseman rode up to the door of the inn as their trap drove out 
of the vnrd. Liudaco'ored violently and hither lip with anger; all 
three of them had recognized ]\lr. Raby. They drove quickly on. 

” Poor fellow,” said Adiiaii to Taule. ‘‘we are giving him the 
cold shoulder, even if IMrs. Scott saves the pudding for us.” 

They were soon al Langdon Beck, sitting one in a rocking-chair, 
the Others on a settle in a small, cozy room with uupainled beams, 


58 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


a deliirhtfiilly queer fireplace with two fenders, one inside tlie o.ther, 
to keep the warmth in, and a huge oven at one side, and a general 
farmhouspy appearance in everj tiling;' doors witli latches fastened 
a bobbin, and other romantic comforts. The trap was sent 
awav as soon as it had left the post-parcel, wliich always came on 
in this casual manner. The house clock was always set by the 
driver’s silver turnip. 

“What would the Nugents say, Linda, could they see you 
mounting these truly rural stairs,” said Taute, “and eating this 
fried mutton, and calling it pleasure?” 

“ AVho are the Nugents?” asked Adrian. 

“ My cousins who live at Leeds,” replied Linda 

“ The queen of cousins,” said Adrian. “ It is a pity she is not 
here to try the experiment of life in imnossible places.” 

“ Tlie people here say they are not able to ‘comitate’ many 
visitors; we three are a host for llieir tiny resources,” said Tante. 
“ Where are your quarters, Adrian?” 

“ This is my room. Yonder cupboard contains a skeleton— bed- 
stead.” Ge^ture of terror on Tante s part. “ It was too dark 
wlien I was out just now'to see more than that it is a most unpre- 
tending dwplling7’ said Adrian. “ I could just discern the big 
stones that hold on the roof, and hear the rushing of the little force 
near the door.” 

“1 enjoyed the drive to Langdon Beck,” said Linda; “the 
scenery is the essence of moorland: wild, solitary, and of fine' 
neutral tints. I like it better tlian an)'- place we have seen in York- 
shire, and the keen air is most exhilarating.” 

“ We are not in Yorkshire now, this house is in Durham,” said 
Adrian, “ and I have taken a scamper into Cumberland and West- 
moreland already; the four counties all meet about here.” 

At the ghostly hour of nine all the inhabitants of Lanjrdon Beck 
were heard distinctly snoring; therefore the visitors accommodated 
themselves to the fashion, and soon left Adrian to such repose as 
the skeleton bed in the cupboard afforded, and the contemplation of 
three blue-and-gold rolling-pins, inscribed, “ Tributes of affectioa 
from Newcastle,” which hung in slate over the mantel shelf. 


CHAPTER XL 

“ How the giant element 
From rock to rock leaps with delirious bound. 

Crushing the cliffs, which, downward worn and rent 
With his tierce footsteps, j'ield in chasms a fearful vent.” 

Byron. 

“ Alas! a very wet day !” said Lindn. But Tante had already 
been down-stairs and gathered the tidings for herself. 8he entered 
the tiny room at this moment. 

“ .Alas! indeed. \;pry much alas! I hear a dismal tale of two 
gentlemen who set off yesterday to go to tlte Snout, aud were obliged 
to turn back. Tlie house-mother recommends us to ‘ gi’e it oup.’ ” 
“ Give up the Caldron Snout — oh, never!” said Linda, 

“It seems there' are this time only two courses open to us,” said 
Taute (they had geuerally found three courses whence they could 


.idria:?^ bright. 


59 


elect violent or timid measures, or a medium which was seldom 
aalisfactory); “ one is to struggle tlirough the bog and interview the 
Caldron Snout, getting wet througli in the effort, coming back 
here to dry our tilings and put on our dried stockings — you know, 
wet boots go on so comfortably over dried stockings, and are so 
pleasant to walk in afterward— then to take up our haversacks 
and paddle down to the High Force Inn and take a trap for Mid- 
dle ton. ” 

“ And the second course?” asked Linda, anxiously. 

“Is simply to pocket our pride, which i» the bulk of our lug- 
gage, and walk down to jMidd'.eton, only eight miles, in the wet, 
ami there take the train for Gainford, the first of the three villages 
Mr. Wilson insisted upon our seeing. For, if we stay here, we 
shall be ignominiou^ly turned out when the people arrive who have 
engaged our iMoms. ” Linda sighed. “The people of the house 
-doubt the ‘ roo-ad ’ — which is not even a track over a moor — will 
be very soft indeed,” pursued Tante, “ and the idea of the v eather 
clearing up does not occur to them as a likelihood. The young 
woman tells me that ladies who come here in fine weather in sum- 
mer-time get their skirts so dirty and wet that they are obliged to 
borrow others, rolling up their own as useless bundles.” 

”1 wonder if the place is really worth going to? What does 
Adrian think?” 

” Oh, Adrian has been half over Cumberland this morning al- 
ready. 1 asked him about this wretched Snout (what a name!). 
Re had just quaffed a glass of beer, and looked particularly brave; 
he was going, if he w'ent in over his neck, I had been thinking of 
my family and their unhappiness should a doctor’s bill happrn to 
me, and t found all my well-formed and well-argued resolulions 
put to flight by his bold face and his ‘ Oh, you’d better come!’ 
wdiich was really no arirument at all. I held out for a second, and 
then gave in, und have come up to ask you what 5 ’’ou think.” 

” After all, why shouldn’t we?” said Linda. 

‘‘ \yhy shouldn’t w'e?” echoed Tante. And they went. 

There was no time to be lost, for the thing (Snout is too dreadful 
a word to be used often) must be done by daylight. They set off 
without a guide, finding their way to the long, rough, and stony 
new road to the mines, winch, although horrible to woiik on, is 
still a road, crossed here and tliere by bridges of plaidi over in the 
W'ater courses, feeling it a bitter irony when a miner overtook them 
and said the roads w'cre ” soft ” for walking, using the word soft 
in the sense of moist, 

” They told me there were three miles of this cruel road,” said 
Tante, ” and then a mile or so across the moor.” 

” A mile or so,” said Linda, cheerfully, “that does not sound 
much.” 

” It is nothing,” said Adrian. 

They found the “or so ” considerably longer than the mile, for 
sign-post after sign-post appeared on the horizon — not mat, explan- 
atory finger-posts befitting a gentleman’s property, but merely 
rough poles to mark the track— and still no sign of the Caldron 
Snout was manifest. The mile w’as a long one across the pathless 
bog, b»t the “ or so ” w^as many a long ndle longer across rocks 


60 


ADRIAN R RIGHT. 


slippery as ice, -whereon they had each a tumble, and over streams 
and ditches which were at length innumerable, so that they became 
utterly demoralized and plunged on, walking boklly through the 
swamps without even aiming at a foothold drier than the oozy 
moss that took a cast of foot and ankle at each step. Such lovely 
moss, too, it was, with its tufts of crimson and gray lichen aud 
blades of green; but the.y could not stay to look at it; the way was 
long, the Snout, the object of this search, was not yet in view, and 
to be beniglited were destruction; their whole souls were absorbed 
in the struggle to flounder on tlirough the pulpy vegetation, in 
which hard, slippery rocks were mixed like plums in a pudding. 
They dipped and ducked, they fell and sprawled, they panted, 
laughed, aud groaned, jumping now, aud now climbing among the 
high rocks into which the moist moorland had just broken, when 
at last the Caldron Snout rushed into the view, and they stood on 
the high plank bridge aud gazed on the boiling cataract, 

“ Where Tees in tnmnlt leaves his source. 

Thundering o'er Caldron and High Force.” 

It is a magniticent scene, this wild desolation rent with a limre 
volume of foam that cleaves its way so madly, so brokenly, through 
the rocky, steep ravine that it fis like a perpetual tragedy, a Pronie- 
thean drama, going on impetuously, eternally, and with a force that 
not the strongest created thing can hinder, not even this fortress, 
this barricade of nature; witness these cHElS, whose sharp edges are 
none of them rounded by the friction, the wear and tear of the cat- 
aract. so very hard is this Tees limestone. 

“ It is as if a world of talk could never undo an unaccomplished 
fact,” said Linda, after long, silent admiration on the part of all 
three pilgrims, overcome at first by their sense of the sublime aud 
irresistible. 

” Yet the union of forces has prevailed to cleave a way through 
impossibilities,” said Adrian, thonghtfnlly. 

Linda took off her hat to cooriier face. The fresh breeze was 
delightful on the bridge, the rush of llie water making it dnubly 
vigorous. The waterfall takes many leaps, of w^hich the lowest is 
the longest. 

“It somewhat resembles the Giessbach in Switzerland, but the 
Tees fall is the tiner of the two,” said Linda. 

The noise of the torrent nearly drowned their voices. 

“It is a noble W'aterfall,” said Tante, ” but so difficult of ap- 
proach that I fancy it will never lose the appearance of desolate 
solitude that makes it the cnlminating-point of this almost depop- 
ulated county of Yorkshire.” 

” 1 suppose the large towns gather in all the population.” said 
Adrian, ” for the country, walk where we will, is as sparsely 
peopled as the world after the flood.” 

The high wind which always whirls about this cataract seemed to 
drive away the rain; at all events, they did not feel it, and Tante, 
taking out her sketch-book, sat in a sheltered nook to make a 
sketch; a few wild birds were hovering overhead, and a still distant 
horseman w-as riding cnivfully along the track above the cataract, 
Wlieie, for about two miles, the Tees glides silently along in almost 


AD RI .Vis' BRIGHT. 


61 


deathly stillness, before it takes its headlong leap at the Caldron 
Snout. This stagnant portion of the river is called the Weel; its 
border is a dead level on either side, and here it has the appearance 
of a meandering canal, the ghost of itself as it is seen elsewhere 
with its rush of bubbling rapidity. 

Linda stood still upon the bridge, lost in meditation; Adrian was 
climbing about, fasteniuii back the floating wreaths of bryony and 
tendrilled creepers that swung themselves in the line of Tante’s 
vision, and gathering lovely mosses for his aunt to send to her 
home. 

“ The wind has carried away my hat!” cried Linda, whose hair 
was being wildly ruffled. 

Adrian looked up admiringly as she stood on the bridge, a focus 
for the breezes, her drapery a study for the sculptor as it wound 
itself about her graceful form. The temple of ^olus held no such 
statue. She pointed downward; there was the hat, tossed from 
rock to rock, now eddying in a whirlpool, now caught by a branch 
and tossed aloft. It was like a cockle-boat on I^iagara. Flung 
round and round, as it were in sport, between two elements, whirled 
from one to the other tossed like a ball by wind to whirl, and 
whirled to air again onlj to fly futher out of reach. 

” I will get it for you. Linda,” said Adrian. 

” Oh, no!” slirieked Tante, rising quickly. ” It is only a hat.” 

” She will want it.” 

‘‘She shall have mine.” 

” And you?” 

” As if it mattered! My shawl will do. Oh, you must not gol 
Adrian, I will not permit it. Stop him, Linda.” 

But Linda was as impassive as she had been at the Strid the ilay 
she saw him leap once and again the Wharfe for sport; she loved 
to look on feats of strength. 

But this— ah! did she think?— this was risk, this might be death! 
Still, to bring this toy to her, w’ould it not show lie cared for her 
enough to do it; caused her a feeling of triumph that he should 
serve her w^dl in a trifle. Had it been herself, liad her own foot 
slipped, ah, then indeed she knew he would have rescued her at 
peril of his own life. But this he would have done for the meanest 
of huinanitv, or even for an animal. Life he would have saved at 
his own risk any day. But this tritie that was hers; it was all the 
more triumph for her that it was a trifle. He should go, if he 
would, she would not say a word that might prevent him. 

‘‘ Adrian, you are not to go,” screamed Tante, at the top of lier 
voice, w liicli the elements flung to the echoes as they tossed the frail 
straw-plait. 

He looked up— Linda w'as not speaking. He nodded gayly at 
Tante, and leaped down upon the last crag where the hat had caught. 
Oh, mercy! he was in the w'aters! a sudden rush had risen over Uie 
rock and swept him ott his feet; he caught at the r.ext rock, in vain; 
the torrent swung him over the point as if he had been a feather. 

A moment of agony for the gazing women. Tante followed the 
river’s mad course almost as madly. Linda recalled her senses to tell 
her what help she could give; the horseman w^as in sight; she made 



62 ADRIAJs' BRIGHT. 

frantic gestures; he hu»’rie(l up at racing speed. He saw all at a 
glance. It was George Raby. 

“ Save him, and 1 will bless you forever.” 

“ Will 3 mu marry me?” There was no time to mince his words/ 

” Yes,” shrieked Linda. He was off his horse in a moment, and 
had flung off his shaggy coat. His quick eye saw the point to make 
for, where the body— for he could not call it man — must next be 
caught, and he was there as soon. Sure of eye, firm of toot, strong 
of outstretched band, he caught and held it firm as in a vise; swift 
as the water’s rush, though ev^en he not nigh as strong. Thought 
gained the victory over force, mere force, not even brute force, but 
only blind, bewildered hurl of weight and flood, from height to 
deep; the— man— was saved, for man it was, and no mere body; but 
man and pearl of manhood, saved by a brother stronger in every 
quality but one, the spark of genius, and saved for a woman’s sake 
— since for that woman’s sake had Kaby come here. With utmost 
ease he raised the youth with his mighty arm and laid him in the arms 
of Tantc. AYith an easy swing he caught the light-feathered trifle, 
the cause of ail this horror, tremor, grief, well-nigh eternal sorrow, 
and carried it to the terror-stricken Linda, wdio had given wuiy to 
her palpitating emotions, her proud guard of reserve utterly broken 
down, she was weeping and — entirely natural. 

George Rahy drew' tenderly toward her. 

He is iinhiirt; come down with me to see.” 

Pie helped, almost carrried. her down to where her aunt was 
working with a woman’s sense to restore, and aid the half-drowned 
youth, and with a matron’s knowledge doing her best to prevent 
hiture ill by removing what she could of his wet garments while 
she seaiched for bruise or broken bone. He looked like one of his 
own exquisite marbles; w'ith no harm, but for Ids right hand bleed- 
ing. A few minutes served to restore the complete consciousness 
winch he had never entirely lost; which fact enabled him to 
second Raby’s effort, that might else have proved fruitless, as re- 
newal would have been too late. And Tante — well, she could not 
blame him for bis rashness, she was too thankful. Tears streamed 
from her eyes; she loved him well, this large-hearted woman who 
had so many else to love. He was on his feet by the time Jjinda 
reachcrl the spot, and able to tell her she must thank Raby both for 
hat and friend. Ah. how much more than friend! 

Linda was overcome; she again burst into a passion of tears. 
Adrian had never seen her so womanly; he was touched, and spoke 
kindly to her, more softly than be bad ever before spoken. Ah, 
what had .she done? her feeling of thankfulness was absorbed in the 
remembrance that she had lostaP in the moment there was hope. She 
shut her eyes, and seemed again to see that bright hair, that soft 
cheek grazed by the klacl?. rock, that young face blinded with storm 
and foam. Death so imminent, and all for her. Ob, joy, that those 
ejes were bright again! Tante would scarcely speak to her; she 
wac full of anger that Jfinda should have let Adrian go on the pei il- 
eus, frivolous errand, to risk a life so rich, so flushed with hope 
and hope’s fulfillment 

” Put on my dry coat, old fellow; mount my mare, and ride like 
the devil,” .said Raby, “ or you won’t be a salvage yet.” 







V ADJilAH 


BllIGHT. 



^^Lhida cmild sav uothing. She had pledged herself away, and 

must henceforth move under the guidance ot this- stranger. Oh, 

Adrian mounted, and rode off. The others did slay lon^ 
in the hurly-burlv of the cataract. The river plunged and huiricd 
on, the very noise keeping up the turmoil of their minds, as, at a 
bail, until the baud ceases, one still whirls on. _ 

Taule knew she must hasten to catch a tram 
miles off, that she might see to lUlr.an’s welfare. i-A\k 

emra<-ed pair longed for an hour of quiet; one for soft, s^ett talk, 
the other for thoucht; bitter, bitter thought. 

But the moor had to be recrossed, with the former 
cullies culuincea, until they regauied the rough roud 
lead-mines where the toilsome walk was only to be oveicomc by 
natiencrDud the feeling that, there wns no help for it; for, however 
much excitement and wretchedness may make these things seem 
tritiin'>- they neither dry one’s wet clothes nor smooth a newly 
metal?d roai; nor is a vx4lk, or rather struggle, under such conui- 

‘“pielSnUo :U w" s’Se’^ight of the friendly little inn at Langdou 
Beck and a good fire, where they dried their wet gaiments, or 
stiffened Ihem'in trying to dry Adrian 

by the level path by the stagnant Weel being a lomier wa\. but 
m-icticable for horses, which the moorland track is not. 

^ Tante in the dark about her niece’s sudden engagement, and 
relieved to hear that Adrian was safe,, was able to do the nmch 
talkino- required to answer the friendly inquiries and sympathy of 
the falnilyat the inn; everybody asking 1 ante if she was suie the 
sierht of the Caldron Snout was worth the trouble she had takem 
She declared that she liked it herself; but, acting on an impulse of 
Id Her fellow- creatures, she said the.y had better ad nse 

everybody else not to go. It may be stated that tins kind considera- 
tion did not occur to tante until she was struggling to put on hei 
wet boots which had stiffened in the chimnoy-cornei in lieu of dry 
Tng - am she observed to Linda that they had roughed it this time to 

htiV heart’s content. She wondered that her niece on this occas on 
gave vent to none of her usual garrulousness, but attributed her 

“"MrEubfwrinost nssidtiuus in liis endeavors to reake life easier 
for the ladfes but ti.eie was liltio to be done besides tyalkmg down 
to the inn at kio-li Force, where they found that Adnaii had gnen 
orders ^procure a carriage for Uie tired pilgrims, who drove on at 
ouce to Raby Hall, where Mr. Asdaile met them on the dooistcp, 
and iust wUhin the old hall, hung round ^yuh antlers and othci 
trophies of the chase was Adrian Bright, looking as it uothing had 


64 


ADJtlAX r.IilGIIT. 


happened, save that liis garments hung about him like modern 
drai)ery on a statue; for he wore a l(H)se coal built for Ursa i\lajor, 
with only a crimson-silk handkerchief knotted loosely round his 
neck, and the cuffs of his sleeves rolled up. All this gave a pic.tur- 
esqueuess to his appearance well in keeping with the fine old hall, 
whose deeply embrasured windows and oaken rafters left shadowy 
depths to be searched by gleams of firelight fiom between the brazen 
dogs, which also glittered on white damask, and ohr fashioned silver, 
and knives with buck-horn hafts, and the whole liaM w’^ as permeated 
with fragrant odor of pine and oaken billet. All this was a right 
cheerful sight to travelers who had been roughing it 'as they had 
done. Well as Tante had liked the house by daylight, she was en- 
chanted with it now, and, half-laughing, half-reproving, scolded 
Linda for her folly in rejecting all this. 

“ It is mine even now,” said Ijinda, in a low voice; ” and very 
miserable it makes me.” And she poured into Iheearsof theaston- 
ished Tante the history of the moment that had turned all her life to 
blackness. 

Ah! what may be the work of one day? The undoing of a thou- 
sand, of eight thousand. Our words during twenty-one years 
or more-— those words by wliieh we shall be judged for eternity— all 
consummated, or maned, for this life, by one short ” yes ” or ” no ” 
— the lightning speech of an instant. 

Suddenness marks most of the decisive events of our lives, yet 
these events can often only be rendered fruitful by long toil. 

Tante was dumfounded, dubious, delighted, congratulatory, and 
sympathetic all in turn. What would Adrian say when lieki'icw it, 
and what wore they to do? So much deperuled upon the next step 
they might take, for Linda coirld hardly beheld borrnd by a promise 
made in such a nromeut of agony and agitation. What would she 
do? 

‘‘ Trust to futurity,” said Linda, in a gloomy voice. 

” What is your meaning?” 

Her aunt looked at her curiously. 

” No, Aunt Lrtcy, 1 will never break my word, if jm!! mean 
that;” she piqued hei’self highly on her sense of honoiv. “ but — I may 
have another destiny yet. Aleauwhilo, we can’t stay here.” 

‘‘No, certainl}’’ notin a bachelor’s house.” 

Linda turned impatienti}’- away. Her objection was not of that 
sort. Bui Tante knew that to R\nj meant ratification of the engage- 
ment. Baby, in his hospitality, wanted them ail to slay at the Hall, 
but Tante was inflexible, and he acquiesced in her decision. 

“ I will win my way,” George Baby said to Tante; ‘‘ I cannot 
expect to make her love me all at onc'*.” 

Adrian was to stay at Baby until the Yorkshir-emnn opined Ire 
might be fit to travel, thoirgh the young sculptor stoutly pioft ssed 

hmself all right. Still, he seemed a kind of hostage for the return 
of the ladies when JNllss Esdailc should arrive at Baby, making it 
less decidedly a bachelor’s dwelling. Tante proposed going to 
Wliitby to meet the Nugents, leaving Linda in their care; only, 
while the.y Avere in this neighborhood, they might make a circuit by 
way of the villages of which lhe}q had lieai^d so much. Adrian 
should meet them at V,Tiitby, and escort Linda, and they w’ould 


A Dill AN- BIUGHT. 


‘65 


also possibly piirsnade the Niic^ent.s to make a short stay at Raby 
after Miss Esdaile’s arrival, as by that time it would be necessary 
for Tante to returu to Loudon. 


CHAPTER XII. 


““ Sunk are the bowers in shapeless ruin all, 

And the long gra woU • 

And, trembling. 



^Anci^ ui tf 11 1 u 1 1 11^ 5 

Far, far away thy uimuicu icu,vc me .cniu. 


The Deserted Village. 


Theiu path disposed of in this manner, as if each next step were 
to be viewed in the light of a masterly move at chess, leading to 
check or mate in four moves; it only remained for the counter- 
actors — one can scarcely say opponents — to set their plans on foot, 
with a view to securing liberty of action, or, at least, a retreat. 
Therefore Linda Fraser, leaving her wet boots to be “ done up,- 
as the man said, “ for slavery,” bought others, that they might con- 
tinue their travels. Tante’s‘“ Alpines,” of course, held out, they 
were only washed by being wetted, and they set out in light-march- 
dn^i- order for Gainford, styled the “Queen of Durham villages.^ 
iifthe Teesdale one travels in Yorkshire or Durham nuliscnmi- 
nately; the dittereuce only concerns the ratepayers. 

Linda went on as if in a dream, but 1 ante kept her eyes and 
sketch-book open, and was disappointed, though not surprised, at 
finding Mr. Prothero-Wilson’s much-belauded parish only a tidy, 
well-swept and pretty enough little red-roofed village, built irregu- 
larly round a green, with a neat-as-paiiit rectory and square tow- 
ered church of the Early-English-lately-restored style; a grocers 
shop with nothing to buy but boots and haberdashery and a 
draper’s where they sell sweet-stuff, bacon, lard, cheese, and photo- 



ADRIAI?’ BRIGHT. 


06 

old sherry, or, at any rate, a cup of milk and some bread aud but- 
ter, at Barford, on the opposite side.” 

At length they found a stray boy, whom they bribed to undo tlie 
ferry-boat for them and row them across the placidly sparkling Tees 
— oh, how dilTerent, Iiinda shuddered as she reflected, from its aspect 
at the dreadful cataract!— and land tliem on the grass-grown founda- 
tions of the former village of Barford, which, to their di8ma3^ or,, 
rather, to the quenchina: of Taute’s hopes of tea, they discovered 
had not been inhabited since the days of Queen Elizabeth, and 
these earthworks w^ere the most modern erections that the village 
could boast, for the rest of the remains were a part of the great wall 
ofTladrian — a fine example, certainly— and the next modernest were 
the ruins of an Early English chapelry on an opposite hill. 

” It is a wonder we have not met the Skinflints here; it is just 
the sort of place the professor wmuld love,” said Tante. 

Linda made no conversation; she had other troubles. 

They walked through a side, not over it, as in other parts of 
England, and mounted the Roman Wall, looking out for more re- 
cent earthworks or inhabited architecture of some kind, or a shop 
where they might buy ” Tuikish delight,” if nothing else, the lofty 
embankment giving a good outlook; but they saw only a beautiful, 
Ihoujih deserted, prospect of reaches of the winding Tees, with its- 
banks clothed in golden foliage, and a broad, rich landscape of 
English undulating sceneiy, fertile and well-wooded. They guided 
themselves beyond the chapelry or Abbey of St. Lawrence, as 
some folks call it, in error, for the ruins are only those of a very 
small churclv, with lancet window’s and interesting details, and a 
habitation just large enough for one parish priest, though real 
Yorkshire hospitality may w’ell have reigned in the kitchen for- 
merly, judging from its large fireplace with great jambs. 

” It makes me more hungry than ever to look at it,” said Tante. 
” Has the population dwindled since they dismantled the abbeys, 
or does the parish economize its appetite, and put itself on rations 
or low diet?” 

Their state contrasted severely with the abundant plenty of Raby 
Hall, and Tante took care to point the moral of this to Linda. 
Tante cared for architecture even on so small a scale as this; so, 
leaving Linda to sit awhile with her moody thoughts, looking over 
the valley of the Tees, she clambered about, examining the minu- 
tiae of domestic life among the clergy of other days, remarking the 
fireplace in a room on the first floor of the dwelling-house, and 
noticing, that, besides a long lanced light at the west end, divided 
half-way up hetw’een the kitchen and first-floor room, and a win- 
dow in the north angle of the kitchen, there w’as a loophole, enab- 
ling the cook to peep into the church, much in the manner of the 
eventful loophole of the chapel in Suaresbrook Castle. She re- 
turned to Linda, who was forgetting her greater trouble in the 
minor physical discomforts. A large, round building, wTiose ob- 
ject Linda at first could not fathom, engaged their attention; on 
entering, they found it to be a huge pigeon-house, about twenty 
feet high, and large enough to hold a dozen people. It was built, 
as it were, in three stories, and honey-combed with pigeon-holes. 

” They evidently had pigeon-pies in those days,” said Tante, rue- 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 67 

fnlly. Slie had seen pigeon-houses of the like sort in Normandy, 
and these were not always empty. 

It was five o’clock p.m., and they had only breakfasted, so they 
walked on throuirh a held, which had once grown turnips; the ro- 
tation of crops had left partridges, certainly, but what are par- 
tridges without guns, tire, or the means of gelting any bread sauce? 
At last they found a cottage, where they asked a pretty young 
woman standing at the gate to suppl}^ them with bread and milk, 
but she said the district visitor was there sitting with her sick 
mother-in-law, and she could not disturb them "for the moment. 
Here the district-visitor came out and spoke to the young woman. 

“ How has your mother-m law been lately, Ann?” 

” Lord, Miss Ellen, froiglitful bail. AVe never thought she could 
have lived out last Monday night, and Tuesday morning we sent into 
Gainford market to buy a round of beef for her funeral ” (market- 
day being onl}’’ once a week), “ and, who could have thought it, she 
has lived to make a hearty dinner oft’ that fine beef. And now, 
ladies, if you will come in, you are kindly welcome to some of it 
too.” 

The idea of dining off the funeral baked meats nearly took away 
TantG’s appetite, so she only thanked Ann Appleby, and said they 
would on no account think of intruding, and they walked on, ask- 
ing their way to Gainford of a stone-breaker, who told them to be 
very careful in crossing the railway, as it was ” a terrible dangerous 
things for to do,” but that it was the way to Gainford, They, in 
their metropolitan pride, thought such counsel futile, and nervous- 
ness superfluous, and they were beginning some comfortably arro- 
gant talk to themselves on the timidity of people born and bred in 
the country, when another man came up and offered to show them 
the way to Gainford, as he was going there, and he likewise offered 
to sell them a wooden cradle he was carrying, which, he told Linda, 
was very strong and useful for a good long family.” 

“ No wonder the stone-breaker told us to be careful,” said Tante, 
when she found Uiey had to walk a mile along the railway embank- 
ment itself (notwithstanding a board of warning to trespassers) and 
over a bridge across the Tees. “ There certainly would be no room 
for us and the train too. And here it comes!” 

“ Run along, madams, for your life,” and the man ran with his 
cradle as fast as he could speed to the platform, followed by the 
travelers, with the train shrieking close behind them. The guard- 
ians of the railway winked at this infraction of the by-laws. They 
had not reckoned upon finding any population in Yorkshire to in- 
fringe them when they were so unpractical as to leave right of way 
to none but the train passeujrers. 

They chose the Cross Keys haphazard among the three inns, and 
the good-natured landlady at first sight of Tante nearly shrieked. 

‘‘ Lord love ye, ma’am, 1 thought you was Ann Appleby’s ghost.” 

” What Ann Appleby is that?” coolly asked Mrs. Bright. 

“Ann Appleby o’ Bf rford, she died last Monday; her man was 
in the market on Tuesday buying a noble piece of beef for her fu- 
neral.” 

“ Does one write history on such evidence as this?” asked Tante 
of her niece. ‘‘No, mistress, we have seen and talked with Ann 


68 


ADlilAX BRIGHT. 


Appleby not an hour a^jo. and she offered us a slice of the beef m 
question. Besides that, it was not Ann Appleby lierself, but her 
inother-in law, who was ill.” 

“ Then, if she isn’t dead, it was a shamefully extravagant lhin|^ 
of people in their condition to be buying meat like that, to set u{> 
for better quality than their neighbors, to wax fat and kick; I’m 
ashamed o’ them.” 

Tante, proud of Ijeing like the ghost of the pretty Ann Appleby, 
tried to explain what she knew of the circumstances, but tlie beef 
weigl'.ed too heavily upon the landlady to be explained away; she 
talked of it every time she came in with the tea-things, but laughed 
when Tante made her observe that she ate bread and butter pretty 
freely for a ghost. The old dame could not make out her guests at all 
indeed, they liad already caused much mystification to the Y orkshire;; 
people with their erratic and seemingly aimless movements, espe- 
cially when, after inquiring for some particular locality, they would 
rd once drift off in another direction. 

Tante asked her for a glass of water to paint with. 

‘‘ Wa-at!” the landlady shrieked, as if Tante had asked for some 
water to take after her poison. ” To what, to wha-at?” 

“ Don’t you like pictures? ^ye think painting a very nice aftiuse- 
nient.” 

The worthy landlady appeared to seek a history or a mystery in 
everything. 

” it is a very nice amusement p’ra-aps,” with a significant sti-ess 
on the word amusement, ‘ but a painter was here not long agone 
and he left some of his rattletraps here, and now I know your line of 
business, I will run up and gel some ot his unfinished picters just 
for to give you an idee. 1 could not for the life of rne tell why you 
coined here: methought you weren’t in the sheep line, and you. 
didn’t seem rich enough to look like land.” 

” You thought I was a ghost, you know,” said Tante. 

“ I didn’t mean to be unpleasant, and I withdraw the remark, as 
you may think it rude.” 

” Not at all; it was fiattering to me.” 

Among the drawings the landlady brought dowm was a view of 
Brimham Docks, the very view lie Guileful Artist in the while 
liat mu>t have taken. They a.sked if he had sta3'ed here. The de- 
.scription tallied, it was evhlently he. 

“ An old gentleman was staying here at the same lime, and good 
Lord, how they quarreled; any one would have thought it wa.s 
business of importance.” 

“ It must have been here that he met and quarreled wdtli Adrian’s 
})biiosopher.” thought Tante. ” The world is very small, at any 
rate Y’ork shire is.” 

‘‘ The landlady evidently holds the higher culture cheap,” 
thought Linda. 

She talked of the decline of Gainford and said that *' Barney Gas- 
sel seems now to take the lead, tliough it is but a mucky place.” 

‘‘ Tile scenery is good,” said Ijinda. 

” Ah, Ave don’t care much about they things, us has not got the 
time to waste.” 

She did not know much about Uic site of old Riclimond. where 


ADKIAK BRIGHT. 


69 


Barford now stands, that is, the cottage in the suburbs which is all 
that remaius of Barford uor anything about the grass-grown foun- 
dations. 

“ Now, Leeds is a town worth screaming at.” 

” Fancy your cousins screaming at or about anything at Leeds!” 
said Tante, laugiiing as they went upstairs. 

Their bedroom w'as delightful, being chapel like and roofed with 
oaken planks set herring-bone-v»^ise and with rafters all dark and 
polished. The landlady explained that they used to have Popery 
here in former times, and in the same breath apologized for there 
being no ceiling, but her beds were always well-aired, they need 
have no fear; and the room was over the great kitchen fire. In- 
deed, at night they thought that Gain ford must be the Madeira of 
Durham, so nearly were they roasted, and smothered in blankets. 

” Peaceful, certainly,” said sleepy Tante, “ but we w'on’t remain 
long in Gainford if we get over the night. What could we etpect 
from Mr. Prothero- Wilson. It is just like his w'ater-coloiy taste.” 

Sleep or asphyxia seized them, 

” Iley for Wycliffe and reform,” said Mrs. Bright, next morn- 
ing, and they w'ere up early and across the ferry as soon as they 
could find the boy to row them. Tante was directed to a shop, 
which she did not recognize as such, by the geraniums in the win- 
dow; but the blacksmith, wiio called it so, told her to ” open the 
door, and shout up stairs,” which she did, and thus they hailed 
their boatman. 

“ Society is very mixed in Gainford,” said Tante, as they added 
to a sportsman’s full directions of the w\ay to WyclitTe those of two 
hedgers and ditchers to make all secure. Tante asked for Wycliffe 
with a y, ‘‘ Oli, \Yicklitfe I suppose you mean.” Next she askeil 
for it w’ith a Wick. ” Oh, Wycliffe 1 suppose you mean.” ” Be- 
fore asking for it again,” said Tante, “ I must inquire, are you of 
Saxon or Danish descent?” 

Betw^eeu them all, Saxon, sportsman, and Dane, the clew to Wy- 
clilfe seemed irretrievably lost, so they made more minute inquiries^ 
at a farmhouse a mile on, where they heard their goal was yet four 
miles further. 

” Distances are elastic liereabouts,” said Tante, ” four miles back 
w^e heard the same thing.” Tliey wu‘re to take tlie footpath through 
divers fields and emerge on the turnpike road. Nothing could 
sound fairer, but on narrdwdy searching all the fields indicated liy 
the broad, w’avy outline of the hand they saw no vestige of a foot- 
path; so, as the nearest approximalion, they followed a cart-palh, 
and roamed first round one huge field, then another, and another,, 
like the Londoner, who walked round and round by the railin.gs of 
Russell Square in a fog; at last in desperation they took a gap and 
made their way across country to the railway, speeding as last as 
they could along the line, according to the custom of the country, 
to the station, any station, trusting to getting a fly at some or any 
other station; which they did, just at the moment of discovering 
that they w^ere six miles from AVycliffe, or anyw’here else. 

” The autumn lints are lovely,” said Tante, taking her ease on 
the carriage cushions; “ the trees liave changed in color completely 
while we have been at the ‘ Force.’ ” 


ADRIANS' BRIGHT. 


70 

“ Elow long ago it seems since we were here before,” said Linda, 
wdtli a siah. "Wycliffe is within a walk of Barnard Castle, and they 
had often driven past it before in their drives ivitli iMr. Prothero- 
Wilson, blit far enough off to miss its charms, when they were ex- 
ploring the Eokeby \scenery. At Ovington they, saw a maypole 
planted on the village green. 

“That is a thing l iiever s£w before, save in a picture,” said 
Tante. 

Wycliffe is a delicious little hamlet, on the glowing banks of the 
Tees; a purple scar crowned by a crimson maple bush forming a 
background to the little, low-roofed, ivy-covered church, and a cot- 
tage hard by ablaze with Virginia creeper, 

“ Why did Mr. Wilson never bring us here?” exclaimed Tanle. 
“ This is worth a hundred Gain fords.” 

“ lie is utterly tastelcvss,” said Linda, “ or full of affectation.” 

Dismissing the tly, they went to the rectory, and saw Antonio 
More’s copy of an original portrait of Wicklilfe, the reformer, a 
good picture of a venerable man of kindly aspect; and the key of 
the church was again confided to them that they might examine the 
old brasses, memorial of the' Wyclitfes. 

Wyclifle Hall, the birthplace of the reformer, is not shown to 
visitors; but, as it was being re-decorated and the painters were just 
leaving it, the ladies were allowed to go over it. The house has 
been rebuilt three times: the principal front and reception-rooms are 
of the Inigo Jones period. The oflices in the basement and the serv- 
ants’ part of tiie house may have been part of the original structure; 
and Tante amused herself in speculating in which room Wickliffe 
was born, in a.d, 1324, 

“ I like to think of him reading in that up stairs library, looking 
out on the beautiful view of the Tees and golden woods, or plant- 
ing the little cedar of Lebanon with his own hands.” 

“ AVliat a history that cedar has gone through,” said Linda; “ it 
has the same character of speculative charm that an abbey has.” 
Tante was glad to see Linda took an interest in something a*, last. 
She thought it showed her mind was recovering its tone. But it 
was not so, only life in wide, open air prevents one being altogether 
wretched. Maybe it would even lighten the remorse of a murderer. 

The}-- walked in the old-fashioned pleasance and parterre, and 
through the woodland to the rectory; and beyond this to the old 
mill-house to ask for tea and bread-and-butter, which were supplied 
in the usual Yorkshire abundance, the good woman refusing to take 
more than a shilling for the repast; she said eighteenpence was too 
much, she should be quite “ satisfied ” with a sldlling. 

“ Tile reformer left a good moral tone in this place,” said Linda, 

“ The force of a good example outlives its generation,” returned 
Tante, 

Antimacassars abounded even in the mill. 

“ i find in Yorkshire that the proportion is three antimacassars to 
one person,” observed Linda. 

“Yorkshire has two millions eight hundred and sixty thousand 
three hundred and nine inhabitants, I have read, but 1 don’t Ixdieve 
it,” said Mrs. Bright. “ They have kept out of mv way. There 
may be three million antimaoass^ars; 1 have seen most of tliym.” 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


71 

Amply iostrucfed as to the wa}' to Barnard Castle, yet doubtful, 
as usual, after all their numerous instruct ions, which road to take, 
they naturally Look the wrong one; and a sign- post inscribed, “ To 
Hutton,” made the matter no clearer. Just as the horns of the 
dilemma felt sharpest a man came by who directed them to the 
white gate, toward which unseen loadstar all their energies were 
bent; and, oh! joy, there it loomed in tlie distance. It was true, as 
the gardener at Wyclilfe had said, “You wou.d not take it fora 
road, because it looks like a field.” And so it did, very like a field. 

“ But here it is,” said Tante. “ Yet, lo! a sign-post directing us 
in the very wav we were most cautioned to shun says plainly, ‘ To 
Barnard Castle!’ ” 

” Are we safe in trusting private judgment?” asked Linda, though 
their map, their wits, and another man told them lo take this new 
road, and cross a suspension -bridge into Durham, where a wood- 
land track led them to a high road, on which they manfully stepped 
out toward ” Barney Cassel.” 

It was growing dark, and they were tired, though still plucky 
and not thinking of giving in, although they had been all day afoot,, 
when behold a break and pair of horses came swiftly b}'’, and they 
asked for a lift in the empty carriage, and returned to their old 
quarters at the King’s Head, stopping there just as the omnibus 
came from the station. They had been put down at the post-ofiice,. 
and sprang apparently from nowhere, to good Mr. Smith’s aston- 
ishment, as he stood at his own door. 

” You are just too late, ladies; Mr. Prothero- Wilson left this 
very afternoon.” 

” What a thunderclap!” thought they; but a brace of partridges 
revived them, and they read their letters— letters from home, letters 
from Baby, letters from the cousins at Whitby; a destiny in each 
of them, all pulling them different ways. 

‘‘Chains and slavery,” said Tante; ‘‘w^e ’shall have to take to 
luggage if we go lo Wliitby.” 

“ I think we are bound to go. Aunt Lucy. Y’ou see, we are in a 
measure pledged to the Nugents.” 

‘‘ Then furbish your frills up a bit, while .1 write lo Adrian, tell- 
ing him how w'e have been roughing it. It is a pity Cheap Jack is 
not here now, that we might bargain for some gay scarfs and rib- 
bons of the newest fashion to astonisli the people at \S hitby.” 

Linda felt thankful her aunt had no such temptation, as her 
choice of colors was always rather florid, and after the manner of 
Rubens. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

“ . . . high Whitby’s cloistered pile.” 

It was growing dusk as the travelers passed the lurid fires of the 
iron-smelting works at Grosmont, and the purple moorland hills of 
Eskdale and Whitb3^ 

” It seejns as if the whole population of Yorkshire had gathered 
at Whitby Slation to look at us,” said Mrs. Bright. But Linda did 
not seem inclined to laugh in return. 




72 


ADKIAK BRIGHT. 


The hustling, bustlins: crowd seemed dense, indeed, after their 
rural experiences, and they felt very small and provincial, even to 
distrusting their own superiority. They had no time to change 
their dress on arriving at the Imperial Hotel, for the gong was 
sounding for the table iVhoie, and they were ushered in grim silence 
to their places at a long table lined with ladies in gorgeous array 
and gentlemen as stiff a.s their own white neckcloths, who, having 
finished their soup and llsh, looked on in severe silence while the 
countritied new arrivals devoured theirs in guilty haste. It was of 
no use attempting to preserve an incognito, or prove an alibi, for 
yonder were the professor and Mrs. Skinflint, looking stern and 
stony, and directly facing them were Mrs. Nugent ami her daugh- 
ter, both stylishly dressed. Linda recognized them as her soup- 
plate was being removed, and she had time to lift her eyes. Mrs. 

Nugent bowed distantly, Ilcrmione smiled and nodded; but Linda,, 
as stately to the full as Mrs. Nugent, made no attempt at conversa- 
tion wdtii her cousins, her pride w^as up in arms. 

“ You spoke truly; the cousin has a Greek chin, and is a lovely 
girl besides. It is a pity Adrian is not here. Let us get her to 
talk.” 

These remarks were uttered softly, of course; but Mrs. Bright 
and Linda soon began to speak in their usual tone of voice, at which 
people looked with astonishment mingled with contempt; for dur- 
ing dinner no one else spoke above a wdiisner, and. when assembled 
afterward in the ladles’ drawing-room, a leaden pallseemeil to hang 
over everybody. It wms ghastly I They seemed charmed to stone, 
like St. Hilda’s serpents. 

” 1 must break the spell,” said Tante, when, at a decent hour, the 
circle retired to take its ease, and be natural, if it could. ” Let me 
try a wild shout, let me yell. Ha. ha! likewise ho, ho!” and our 
gypsy heroines let off their pent-up feelings in fits of laughter, 

'i’anfe’s comical, Linda’s liysterical, 

” So this is Whitby, your vaunted Whitby.” Linda had been 
praising Whitby to the skies ever since they left London, and before 
that. ” And this is pleasure? Well, it is left to our age to find out 
that pleasure is not pleasant. I can’t stand too much of this, 
though 1 admire the cousin. Did you see how prettily she coaxed 
you to look at her point-lace? You w< re cross to her, I thought.” 

” She is such an em])ty-headed little creature, a curled and spoiled 
darling.” • ; 

Tanie said no more. She always thought Linda Fraser hard. 

‘‘ Theie is the real Wihtby,” said Linda, proudly, as she drew" the , ; 

blind next morning and showed the fine outline of St. Hilda’s ^ 

Abbo 5 % and the blue mists creepmg in and out among the red 
roofs of the old fishing town. ” This hotel life is only an ugly bur- i 

iesque of it.” 

” 'Tis strange how the cultured tourist vulgarizes everything < 

beautiful when luv travels in herds to enjoy it at his ease in his 
inn, ” meditated Tante. 

” When he carries his luv’uries wdth him,” said Linda, who did I 

not at the moment remember how fond she was of her owui little ^ j 

comforts and unpunctualiiics. 

They descended to the shades below", wdiere the same grim. 



ADRIAN BRIGHT. 73 

earthly whispers expressed all the wants and emotions of traveling- 
humanity. 

‘‘ This threshold is the Styx,” said Taiite, in the prevailing tone, 
wdiich has its convenience in allowing satire and personal remark 
to flow freely; ” and over the door might be inscribed, 

“ ‘ Lasciate ogni speranza voi cli’ intrate.’ ” 

“I will not specify Hecate,” said Linda. Mrs. Skinflint was 
seated by Mrs. Nugent, who was in her j: lace of kist night. ” But 
I see the Eumenides plainly.” 

” Those three weird sisters, of course. I recognize them,” said 
Tante. ” Their scowls are awful. The three Fates silting opposite 
are gentler. I knew them last night by their attributes: crewel- 
work, consuU ition, and scissors; and the many-tongued but un- 
intelligible head-waiter is certainl}'- Cerberus.” 

Mrs. Nugent and Linda did not seem on vei}' amicable terms. 
Mrs. Nugent tried to improve Linda, and Linda did not care to be 
patronized by people whom she thought intellectually small, Linda 
called herself an artist, which was otfensive in a poor relation, who 
ought only to profess poor relationship in an elegant, yet submissive, 
way. She was also traveling with Tante, an unmistakably profes- 
sional person, who seemed totally unaware of differences in social 
gradation. 

Mrs. Nugent had never seen Tante before, and she did not like 
her appearance at all; in fact, she was ashamed to own her slight 
connection with her before the strangers in the hotel, people whose 
business it is to criticise, themselves being famous for iioibing else. 
She was discussing Linda and Linda’s aunt with her daughter, tol- 
erating Linda, condemning the aunt. 

” But she is not vulgar, mamma, and she is ver}^ sweet-tempered,” 
said Hermione. 

” She is not exactly vulgar; that is, she eats her dinner properly; 
but there is a want of reticence about her manuBis. She is wanting 
in repose— her eyes see too much; in fact, she looks too clever to be 
well-bred.” 

” But, mamma, she is an artist.” 

” Exactly; and professional women are never ladies.” 

” Linda is our cousin,” said Hermione, dubiously. 

“Linda Fraser is only slightly connected with us, and Ido not 
care for you to be too intimate. She lias chosen a path from which 
she will only escape by a good marriage. It does not look well for 
a young lady to he so mdependeut and self asserting. Ton see how 
I draw back. Had 1 knowm she had adopted her present views, I 
would never have asked htr to join us here.” 

“ I like that kind-looking Mrs. Bright so much,” said Heimione, 
ruefully. “ 1 think her quite pretty.” 

“ She can have no proper self-respect to dress as she does, with no 
suitable toilet for the evening.” 

“ She says she only enjoys traveling when she is unencumbered 
with luggage.” 

“ The excuse of idleness or poverty. One dresses for society when 
one goes into society.” 

“ Then I must not talk to them, mamma?” 


74 


A Dill A - BRIGHT. 


“ You may be polite, but cool. Let them understand that we can 
only know Mrs. Bright as an artist; but, b}' all means, be civil. I 
would not wish you to be otherwise. If she becomes celebrated, we 
can ask her to a party when we go to London. If she is not known, 
we can drop her.” 

Poor, simple-minded, single-minded Tante! No wonder she 
shrank instinctively from the fashionable lady from Ijceds, and 
scorned herself for 'scorning her. 

The first day a,t Whitby was not so terrible, after all ; for one hun- 
dred and ninety-nine steps up the cliff lift you to St Hilda’s Abbey, 
where you are much nearer heaven than proximity to the big hotel 
would lead j’ou to suppose. 

” This is stepping heaven w^ard,” saida musical voice bcdiiod them; 
and they saw the fair, delicate face of Hermione Nugent flusheii with 
shell {: ink as she tripped lightly up the steps and overtook th. m. 

” I made mamma let me follow you when I saw you take this 
path; she never comes here, the steps try her so.” 

Jdnda looked cold, and said she feared her cousin would not find 
them very lively companions, as they were going to draw. 

“ 1 shall enjoy watching you, if I ma3^” and she turned instinct- 
ively to Tante, who seemed the least forbidding. 

“ Perhaps Miss Nugent will sketch from the same spot, and we 
may have a very pleasant morning.” 

‘‘Oh, thank you; 1 draw badly, but I can admire w’hat you do. 
Linda paints magnificently.” 

A stone would have melted under her winning smile. Tante fell 
deep in love, as usual. 

St. Hilda’s, as many of us know, is a magnificent ruin of the 
transitional period, where the Earl}' English pointed style softens, 
without enfeebling, the rich and characteristic architecture of the 
later Norman epoch, just at the point where nothing has been lost, 
while everything is perfected. To the artist’s eye the whole build- 
ing presents the idea of growth, like that of a tree. As 'he unfold- 
ing biossom reveals its coming tint, so do the elegant, pointed arches 
of the triforium, bound togetlier as in a calyx by the broad, round 
arch, with Norman dog-tooth molding, offer the idea of the grace- 
ful,- decorated Gothic emerging from the Norman stem, representing 
the luxuriance of j'outh, full of sap, rising from the firmly planted 
root, memory and development bearing equal sway. The nave, of 
decarated Gothic, gives a taste as of ripening fruit, savored perfectly 
in a traceried window here and there; one window', at the extreme 
southwest angle, giving a slight foretaste of the perpendicular, 
points the glow' of maturity that is perfect to-da}', but will assuredly 
be over- ripe to-morrow. Thus do these old cathedrals trace the his- 
tory of their growMh through ages of faith and beauty. 

The chancel and transept are Early English; the nave is a later 
addition. Of the chancel, which is of great length, the one remain- 
ing aisle sliow's a good, but later, style of vaulting. One end of the 
transept is entire, and v.'e can trai'e the other remains and the 
ground-plan of the demolished end amona the great blocks of 
masonry belonging to tlie central piers wiiich strew the ground. ■ 

Hermione Nugent amused herself with doing this, and came fre- 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 75 

qiiently to comment on her discoveries to the others, who were per" 
force confined to one point of observation. 

“ She is playful as- a little kid,” said Linda, in a tone of mild dis- 
para.s 2 :ement. 

‘‘ Yet she is not deficient in intelligence,” said Tante. ” Here she 
comes again.” 

“ It is curious to observe that the side of the abbey next the sea, 
and most exposed to the fury of the wind, is the best preserved,” 
said llermione; ‘‘even a very delicate little rose window on that 
side is entire. You should come and see it; you would so long to 
paint that little star of lil^ht.” 

Mrs, Bright gave a glance at Linda, as much as to say, ” She has 
a feeling for beauty as well as we.” 

” 1 account for it by the destruction of the conventual buildings 
on the landward side, pvdieii the exterior wall was injured or loos- 
ened,” said Linila, grandly. 

They went on busily sketching, dreaming, and fluttering, accord- 
ing to their dispositions, making an agreeable salad with the oil, 
vinegar, and beet-root they each contributed to the materials, nature 
and ancient lore, spread on the hill table before them; unless it may 
be implied that Hermione contributed the Green stuff, with all its 
freshness; that is more literally to say,- by dint of talking they all 
three came to kjjow each other and to like each other better tlian 
they did at their meeting on the cliff steps. 

“Must we reall}’’ pass through the dreary desert of luncheon in 
the ghostly dining room?” said Hermione, as she saw Mrs. Brighton 
begin to put by her sketching- tools after consulting her watch. 
Hermione was amused at the notion of its being Hades, or the place 
of departed spirits. 

‘‘ Mrs. Nugent wmuld send the town-crier in search if you did not 
appear,” said Tante. 

The very last thing she would do,” thought Hermione. 

” She would rather have a decent funeral with an empty coflin,” 
whispered Linda, who knew her better, when her cousin had gone 
on in advance, carrying a camp-stool. 

Mr. Prolhero- VVilsou had just arrived at "Whitby, and wms already 
in the dining-room. The drag and chestnut horses had evidently 
arrived also, as he was much kowdowed to by the master of the hotel 
and his staff, and even Mrs. Bright became a personage when seen 
to be his friend, and was voted by the strictest of the society uncon- 
ventional rather than vulgar. This made little difl'erence to her; she 
cared more for a letter from Adrian, enthusiastic about his hosts, 
admiring them as such fine models of men, congratulating Linda on 
her prospect of happiness, and professing a longing to see the sister 
of Ursa Major. 

‘‘ Hone of your ill-fed, fairy-like wmnien, but a fine piece of nat- 
ural sculpture, with a waist like the Townley Venus, so I am led to 
undersland.” 

Miss Esdaile was indeed a large-styled womiin, only ill-natured 
people called her gaunt. 

‘‘ lie will not admire llermione Nugent, that is quite clear,” said 
Linda, with a certain feeiin-g of satisfaction, thoughit could be noth- 
ing now to he-r. 


ADRIAN ;BRIGHT. 


76 

Aflrian hoped to be at Wliitbv that evening by a late train. 

“ 1 am glad of that,” said Tante. ” II wbll be wonderful if he 
does not make people know tliat their tongues are given for use, as 
they cannot be worn for ornament.” 

They lived through dinner-time and a dismal evening, where the 
four most grasping of the elderly people secured thf? whist-table, 
pounced upon it. indeed, if that does not give an idea of too great 
activity. The gentlemen disappeared, to the smoking-room, prob- 
ably; the young ladies looked ineffably sad and. bored by their 
crewel- work: their mothers yawned, and maiden aunts rattled their 
knitting-needles in parody of domestic usefulness. 

At ten o’clock the weird sisters told Linda, who was alone in the 
drawing-room, Tante having gone in quest of a ” Bradshaw,” that 
all the ladies were going to bed, witli a great stress on ” ladies,” and 
were aghast at the idea of her sitting up for a gentleman. Linda 
felt mischievous. She had been w’earied by Mr. Prothero Wilson 
and his small-talk. He made everything he talked of seem small 
by his twaddling over it, making mincemeat of it. His attention 
raised her in the estimation of Mrs. Nugent, wdio was more friendly 
to her therefor, and who even politely patronized Tante. 

The rest of the evening passed quickly, when the room w\as cleared 
of all but Mrs. Bright and Linda, w^ho sat talking and writing till 
midnight struck, and Adrian entered the drawing-room. 

He had received Taute’s letter from Gain Ford, and he seemed 
amazed and amused at their waj’’ of ‘‘ roughing it ” in a lofty draw- 
ing-room, with <ras, fire, piano, sofas, and long-tasseled upholstery. 
But Tante explained that it w'as all gilded misery. She showed their 
fetters, and told the by-laws of Hint realm of silence, and how they 
long(‘d to fly to liberty and the gypsy life once more. The piano 
stood closed and unused, save wdiere the ring from a wet coffee-cup 
proclaimed its unfulfilled mission. 

” Just a cradle song, Tante, before w’c turn in.” 

“ Heaven forbid! 1 should lose my character,” said Tante, taking 
up her candle. ‘! Good-night. 1 have something to show you to- 
morrow.” 

It was something like a morning! Between the blazing sunshine 
and the w^arm, fresh heartiness of Adrian Bricrht even the weird sis- 
ters thaw’ed. The waiters stayed in their courses to listen to his 
merriment He bronglit the moorland lireeze into the place, and 
filled the hollow cheeks wdlli smiles. Such influence has youth 
and irayely. 

The Skinflints postponed a planned exploration for a few hours, 
wiiile they listened to him. The professor was dismal in his talk| 
certainly, but less dismal than his w’ont to-day: the lady was, as 
usual, plain and parrot- voiced, at wdiich Aunt Lucy looked signifi- 
cant, and smrted with merry recollection. ° 

Mr. Prolhero-Wilsou was totally eclipsed, and at length drove off 
alone in his drag for some, miles along the turnpike road, lost in 
jealousy, and trying to makeup his mind to devote himself else- 
wfliere, his indecision perplexing every avenue of purpose. The 
poor rich man’s notions of value were confounded when others did 
not take him at his own appraisement. 

The morning absolutely flew, and yet so much w'as cramne d into 


ADRIAN' BRIGHT. 77 

it. Walks on the cliff, playing and singing, and such loud talking! 
Cerberus of the man}" wliispering tongues could not make it out at 
nil; it recalled his fatherland, his many fatherlands. What all 
Tante’s geniality had failed to achieve, Adrian did in a moment. 
He never whispered. Language was not made to conceal his 
thoughts. His influence was as rays of sunshine brought into a dark 
room. 

The letter-writing ceased, that treadmill of desk-work to which 
people bind themselves wiieii they take their laborious holidays 
abroad after equally laborious doing of nothing of consequence at 
home. Tq spend much money economically is the burden of upper 
middle-class life; the purchase of objects at one shilling and eleven- 
pence three farthings is the effort of their existence, the crowning 
triumph being a Bubstitute at one shilling and fivepence halfpenny. 
To meet this demand, every shop is being turned into an ugly store, 
or a toy-shop; for (like cheap postage) these pay best. The small- 
minded being the million, why cater for the upper ten thousand? 
And so our capitals are becoming vast warehouses of trumpery, 
while precious art is swamped in this flood, and interchange of ideas 
Is merged in the stud}’" of the changing fashions of our stationery. 

“ We will keep St. [lilda’s for sunset,” bad been the ciy of those 
who, within ten minutes of their assembling in the morning, were 
•captivated b}'- the talk of this brilliant stranger, and who were pre- 
pared to continue this gratitication throughout the day. Adrian had 
already been up at the abbey by sunrise. He glanced round the break- 
fast-table, and at once took a seat opposite Miss Nugent. 

Another Greek chin, a really Greek chin. Aunt Lucy. This 
mf.,kes the fourth,” he said, as he met her at the door and placed a 
chair for her by his side. ” Oh, this Whitby is a heavenly place! 
Who is sJie, Tante? She has the most perfect face 1 ever savv,” 

” xVud the Voice, and the' Greek chin of Holton, Adrian?” said 
Tame, archly. 

” Perhai)s 1 was mistaken then. The outline may have been less 
perfect. This is faultless.” 

Tante looked mischievous. 

” Tell me; can she be— is she the cousin from Leeds?” 

Linda came down laie, later than usual, perhaps, from sitting up 
last night. 

” You have a hanler collar and cuff struggle here than when we 
had no luggage out in the villages,” said Tante, as she welcomed 
her niece. 

” All, that baggage, and the failure of the transport service, how 
it detains an army,” said Mr. Prothero-Wilson, trying to be jocose 
as he waited upon Linda. 

“The vis inertia is the greatest force we have,” said Professor 
Skinflint, in his deliberate manner. 

” Prove that,” said ]Hr. Prothero-Wilsou, sharply. He was hurt 
at Linda’s avoidance of his attentions. 

” Tlie slowest motor regulates the pace of life.” 

” As the slow baggage-inuleof a caravan detains the troop of war- 
riors on fleiy steeds,” broke in Mrs. Skinflint, in her parrot-like voice. 
She always rounded off the professor’s slow paragraphs for him. 

Adrian’s gaze was to llermione as the needle to the magnetic pole. 


78 


ADRIAN BlUGH'i. 


That perfection in outline of face and form, which prevented the 
untrained eye, even her own, from knowiiii? how beautiful she really 
was, held him like enchantment. It was as if nature had made a 
perfect mold, of which the Venus of the Capitol was the plaster 
cast, and broken it after creating Ilermione in finest porcelain clay. 
Adrian knew nothing of what went on around him, and, had not 
his own tine person and handsome face confirmed the good impres- 
sion his pleasant speech and manners had already made, his popu- 
larity must have waned. But the Nugents left the table, after Mrs. 
Nugent had given gracious recognition to Tante and a relation -like 
smile to Linda, of whose engagement to a gentleman of position she 
had lately heard, and Adrian Bright was himself again, and more 
than himself; so that, when Mrs. Nugent appeared in the drawing- 
room in the course of the morning, he devoted himself to her enter- 
tainment 80 successfully that she went the length of praising him 
before inquiring who he was and measuring the length of his purse. 
Mrs. Bright and her party did not wait for sunset to mount to St. 
Hilda’s Abbey; but Ilermione Nugent was there before them, and 
met them at the top of the steps. 

“ IVlamma said ]' might come up herewith Mrs. Skinflint, and 
she is so busy analyzing styles with the professor that 1 have come 
out into the fresh air,” 

Her healthy color, brilliant eyes, and innocent mirth so bewitched 
Adrian Bright that they eclipsed both the Voice of Snaresbrook and 
the Greek chin of Bolton. 

” But you care for architecture?” said Mrs. Bright. 

” I like the outside of it, seen as you see it; but I do not care for 
exploring excavations, nor for secret vaults and staircases; I have 
had enough of them to last my time.” 

Adrian looked scrutinizingly at Miss Nugent, Decidedly, the 
voice was as sweet as that of the Invisible.' Could it be herself? 
Ah, that it were so! that faith to one might mean devotion to the 
other. 

“Mrs, Skinflint, and the professor Ul fear you are lost,” said 
Linda, significantly. 

“ They have forgotten my existence by this time,” 

“ Let the pretty child come with us,’*’ said Tante, aside. “ She 
must find those fogies dreadfully dull.” 

They four sat and reveled in the delicious afternoon air, tempered 
witii the warm glow of sunshine, and freshened by the breeze that 
plays on that peninsular height; all four so young, for Tante was in 
mind as young as any, and as full of vigor and elasticity. They 
ran riot in the freshnesses of thought, that stirred and thrilled them 
like that summer air, for summer it still is often in tlie mild days 
of young October; and they sketched the ruin from the point where 
it rises like a pyramid against the sea and sky ; its columns and 
lancet windows reflected in a near pool grown with bulrushes, and 
broken with hurdles, where groups ( f gciille cattle stand in the fore- 
ground to be sketched, Ilermione liad brouglit her new sketch- 
book here to-day, so she sat down near Tante and tried to follow in 
her w'ake. Adrian read the history of the abbey in Black’s 
“ Guide,” and they talked about the goodly number of ruined ah- 


ADRIA^^ BRIGHT. 79 

beys found in Yorkshire, leaving the Skinflints to delve below the 
surfaces alone. 

“ Wliat a glorious place this is!” said Iflnda, after they had sat 
some time enjoying and perpetuating their enjoyment, ” This 
height is the finest possible situation for an abbey, and with such a 
background too! The plenty of the air and sea is better than the 
leafage and pasture, or the plenty of earth, surrounding most ab- 
beys.^” 

” It is quite a Roman sky,” said Adrian, throwing himself back 
on the grass to look up through the ultramarine intinity. 

” It is easier to ]yaint a Roman sky than the tree-background of 
the other abbeys, whei*e jmu have to wrijrgle on the green until you 
have no room for more letter m’s on the branches,” said Miss 
Nugent, laughing. Her views of art were not serious; she would 
have spoken of any painting she liked as “ a pretty picture,” with- 
out knowing that the artist thought of it as a poem, an outlook, a 
prophecy, a development of yower, or any other high sounding 
entity. This was her lack of training, |•«rhaps her lack of iifFecta- 
lion, for she had at least as much feeling as the louder-spoken mul- 
titude of art amateurs. Her talk of ” wriggling on the green'” 
tickjed Adrian. Her notion of art was so girlish. She proceeded 
forthwith to paint a Roman sky, making the head of a cow grazing 
in the foreground appear as if iulaid, or as a flower does \\\)oii faience 
de Longwy. 

” I wish somebody would show me how to do air,” said she, pite- 
ously, as she perceived this result. 

” You have indeed lashed on the cobalt,” said Mrs. Bright, smil- 
ing. 

” Perhaps I had better dab it up by and by, like a man did whom 
I watched at Brimliam Rocks. I fancy he was that Mr. Prothero- 
Wilson who is here in our hotel, lie seemed to do it all with his 
pocket-handkerchief.” 

Adrian, who had been more absorbed in the study of her profile 
than in the outline of St. Hilda’s, took her drawing in hand, and, 
with his firm to>ich, seemed at one moment to lift everything out 
of the paper, and with another sweep of the brush to throw the sky 
miles back. It was magic to llermioue. 

‘‘ Y^ou seem to make the paper speak,” was her awe-struolc re- 
mark, as she timidly took up Adrian’s own rough sketch. It ex- 
cited her amazement to ])crceive how, with a few swift strokes, he 
presented the angle he took with such power, that drawing, as she 
looked and listened, seemed an art revealing itself, like a genius 
taking shape, which before had been but smoke in a bottle. 

As Adrian sat down by her and created her picture, while he and 
the others talked of art, Ilermione listened with rapt wonder; their 
talk opened up a new Avorld to her knowledge. 

‘‘The breeze plays upon the old aisles as on an ^Rolian harp,” 
said Linda, ‘‘while it brings us up the savor of the sea. All the 
senses have play.” 

‘‘ Don’t give' I hem too much play, or we shall not get on with our 
work,” and Tanle, looking at Linda’s work. ofTered a few sugges- 
tions. Her niece, strong in her own individual way of reading 


80 


AlJllIAis BRIGHT. 


nature, examined lier drawing under these lights, as if criticising her 
critic. 

“ 1 shall not alter it,” said Linda, importantly, or, as it seemed 
_ to Ilermione, couceitedl 3 % for she thought every one might be thank- 
ful for hints from a genius, a real artist, an exhibitor like Mrs. 
Bright, 

” 1 think I should like to have my picture criticised,” said Her- 
moine, speaking under the intliience of the new feeling that there 
wa? more in s rt than what tlie drawing-master taught at school. “ 1 
should see how much 1 had to learn.” 

"We wuint appreciators, valuers, not critics, to aid the creation of 
true artists,” said Linda, in her loftiest tone. 

” The appreciator must be well-nigh as highly educated as the 
artist himself.” said Adrian, ” Think how a Greek public was 
trained in the age of Pericles.” 

” One reacts upon the other,” said Tante, 

“Fire and love form them both,” said Adrian. “ They must be 
plastic to mold, burnt to endure.” 

“ There are also dilTerent ways of seeing,” said Tante. “ Painters 
have insiirht— poets have outlook.” 

“We can never have high-art while we have only new’spaper 
culture,” said Adrian. “ We are like the later Greeks, ever craving- 
to hear some new thina-; they produced no immortal woiks. It was 
otherwise in the Phidian age, ivhen the people watched tiie grow’th 
of those sculptures, not of a day, but the fruit of strength and 
patience.” 

“ What an education for a people to see those temples growing!” 
said Tante. 

“ It was better than magazanes that puff their readers up with the 
fanej" that they know the things which they talk about at random.” 

“ Halle said the progress ot' art and progress of art culture are 
twm different things,” ventured Hermioue. “ It puzzled me much 
when I read it: I see it a little clearer now.” 

She looked up at Tante. 

“ Art wdll not indeed be raised by universal culture,” said Tante. 
“ It may give wider joy, though not deeper, nor higher.” 

“ Universal culture influences art no more than the cornfields in- 
fluence the sun,” said Linda, decisively. 

Adrian spoke not, but as he looked at the lovely Ilermione, he 
thought “ to know’ her is a liberal education ;” to watch the growth 
of such a lovely, living form w’ere best of all. 

They liad secured one afternoon of bliss, and they now observed: 
the assemblage of worshipers of “ tlie beautiful ” gathering them 
selves promiscuousl}’-, accidentally, and prominently, from many 
quarters, to admire the sunset, as proposed. 

The sunset was splendid, as a sunset made to order should be; 
Tlie abbey glowdug wMth light, its browm tones enhanced by the 
golden beams; the opposite hill bathed in blue mist; the rich, red, 
mild-fealured cattle; the old gray manor-house nearby; the qiiainj; 
old parish church set low in llie greenery, and a mistj^ windmilL, 
with the harbor and the river Esk, formed a picture all were able 
to admire iiniler the intiupnee of muliml ailmiration, and the scarlet, 
■white, and gold and purple of (he i. 


ADRIAK BRIGHT. 


81 


“ These colors of the sunset, with the blue zenith, recall the 
description of the tabernacle curtains,” said Adrian, speaking low 
to Hermionc. 'I’o her his words always brought forward a picture. 
It was as if tine music were being played. 

Tl)e general gush of rapture brought the professor and Mrs. 
Skinflint from their den; lier gauze veil floated in the breeze. 

“ph, that blue puts my eyes out,” said Linda, affectedly. 
Adrian also turned away, the blue veil disarranged the harmojiy of 
the heavens. He looked into Ilerniione’s blue eyes. 


CHAPTER XI Y. 

“ He that is of a merry heart hath a continual feast.” 

Proverbs xv. 15. 

Adrian’s arrival had quite cleared away the fog of gloom that 
hung on the dinner-table. Ilis clear voice, not loud, but distinct 
in utterance, made his lively speech audible all round tlie table. Hs 
recognized a friend made at Rome, and nodded gajdy to a casual 
acquaintance met at Munich, and once again chanced upon at 
Copenhagen j and Thoi waldscn’s name uprising naturally led to- 
stoue work in general, and geology and the abbeys in particular. 
Professor Skinflint lifted a ponderous bullet into his eighly-oue ton 
gun, Mrs. Skinflint applied the nialcli to the toiichhole and tired it, 
after which there could be no more silence; everyone discovered 
tliat he or she had much of importance to communicate, and as all 
chimed into the general talk, or paired off in dialogue, i! is surpns- 
ing how much these dismal people found to say when once they 
claimed their lost tongues. The effect was', like that of an Irishman 
at a public meeting, or a bit of bread stirring a glass of flat cham- 
pagne, Dinner, instead of being a funeral feast, passed quickly 
through; faces widened rather than lengthened; and by the time 
the company assembled in the ladies’ drawing-room they were 
ready for music, -whist, laughter, or wdiatever suit Adrian might 
lead. 

A whist-table was speedily formed for those wdio looked as if 
they liked nothing better, and Adrian’s quick eye detected disap- 
pointment on tne faces of some more modest, perhaps countrified, 
fogies who saw themselves cut out. 

” Have you no other packs of cards,” said Adrian, to the head 
waiter, 

‘‘ I’ve looked everywhere for them, sir.” 

” Then look everywhere else, and bring us a card-table.” 

” There is a card-table in the room, sir, only it is occupied.” 

” Then bring me the butler’s tray, that I may turn it upside-down 
on two chair-backs.” 

The emergency was so great that a table was found. 

“That is better; it would not have looked well for a fine hotel 
like this, if it got mio Punch, to see gentlemen sitting astride of two 
chairs supporting a butler’s tray; the picture labeled ‘ Hardships 
of Hotel Life,’ or ‘Curiosities of Civilization.’ ” There was no 
holding out against Adrian’s gay good humor, lie looked so 


ADEIAK BlilGIIT, 


82 

pleasant all (lie time he was £>:aining his point that even Cerberus did 
not growl at the extra trouble he took. 

A “ paper game,” crambo or another, or others, promoted mirth 
among the young people, and music followed spontaneously from 
Tante’s fiiiirers as she accompanied Adrian’s songs, and dead silence 
<as of yesterday), but for the moment only, surrounded Miss 
Kugent’s ravishing soprano, wild, fresh, untutored as the (rill of a 
larC A voice incomparable in its jmuug flexibility, and of that 
rare quality that the highest notes of the human register rang out 
clearly and easily as spontaneity itself. Among trained singers, 
such voices as liers for whom Mozart wrote the music of ” The 
Queen of Night,” in the original key, Persiani’s, or Miss Robert- 
son’s testify what may be done by cultivation; the native wood- 
notes wild are better, because this rare quality of voice loses much 
of its musical sweetness in training, and only gains a metallic brill- 
iancy, while it rar8]3Mias volume or endurance enough to fill an 
opera-hoJise or concert-room without deterioration. 

Now was Adrian’s moment, what he had been wmrking for all day. 

V Aunt Lucy, will 3^011 accompany a glee for us? AVhat shall we 
have? What are your favorites. Miss Nugent? Suppose we try 
‘ Hark! hark 1 the lark,’ we all know that;’' and they sang Cooke’s 
fine old glee. 

‘‘ Ask Miss Nugent if she knows Schubert’s solo setting of the 
words,” said Adrian, as Mrs. Bright still sat at the ])iano. Tante 
pla3"ed the first few chords and then asked Hermione if she knew 
it. She did, and sang it exquisitely; perhaps with a feeling peculiar 
to this song, which seemed to touch a chord of memoiy. Adrian 
was enchanted; it was the same voice, his Voice, it was herself. 
Ch, joy of joys! But he kept his precious secret, not even Tante 
nor ilermione's self knew his reason for asking for that song. It 
seemed as if Hermione were all his own— she was, oh, yes, she must 
be his ! 

” 1 hardly ever sing in society,” said Hermione, in answer to a 
question of Linda’s. “ I am fond of music, but my voice is too 
uncultivated for a drawing-room.” 

“ It is exquisite,” said Tante. 

• ” Yes,” said Mrs. Nugent, in a tone of vexation. ” I wanted her 
to be regularly taught, hut the masters were all disappointed with 
her; all their songs were either too low for her voice, or there was 
something that went wrong.” 

“ Miss Nugent would not care to sing the twaddle-and-\yater that 
most music-masters teach.” Mrs. Bright certainly did not pick 
and choose her expressions. 

” One master told me plainl3’^ that to regularly train flermione’s 
voice would be to spoil it.” 

“ What a thoroughly honest man! and how thankful 3"ou ought 
to he!” 

Mrs. Nugent was not sure if she liked having her law thus laid 
down; though certainly ]Mrs. Bright was a genius, and seemed an 
authority. Mrs. Nugent herself knew little about music, and did 
not enjoy symphonies in certain specified flats, especially minor 
fiats; but she wished her daughter to have all the accomplishments 
jrequisite for a 3mung lady, and, had it not been for her own natural 


ADJIIAK BRIGHT. 83 

gifts of voice and ear and love, her music would have been of equal 
lank with her drawing. 

“ Yes,” pursued the unconscious Mrs. Bright, ” a voice of such 
supreme quality and delicacy should not bo tamnered with by any 
but the very highest authorities. She should be accustomed to lisU n 
to tlie very best singers, and only made to study music in its broad 
general sense as a tine art.” 

” Who are these Brights?” asked Mrs, Nugent of Liuda Fraser. 
” Are they related to the member for Birmingham?” 

” Aunt Lucinda is my father’s sister. I am named Lucinda after 
her,” Linda spoke haughtily. Her mother, a relative of the late 
Mr. Nugent, having married a comparatively poor man, was, of 
course, dropped by her well-to-do connections. 

” Ah, yes! 1 never knew your poor father.” She said, poor ” 
as people of sympathies often do, in the sense of deceased. ” Y'our 
aunt seems a jierson of some talent. It is a pity she dresses so badly, 
and arranges her hair differently from other people.” 

“Aunt Lucy has more hair than other people.” Mrs Bright 
found this part of her wealth an inconvenience when tr 3 dng on a 
bonnet, but it wms very magnificent hair of wav}" auburn, and of 
itself was sufficient to eclipse the head-dresses of all other women of 
her age, Tante often laughingly called it ‘‘an economy in caps.” 

Adrian was by Ilermioiie’s side asking for more music. 

‘‘You have had too much of mine already; I should bore the 
others by stopping their talk.” 

” Can one ever have too much music? should not one be happy? 
When one is happy, everything is a harmony.” 

“One can have too much even of harmony,” beiran Hermione, 
laughing in her light, rippling, girlish way. “ \Ye had almost too 
much of it at the school 1 was at. At seven a.m. a pair of girls 
■would begin their half of the quatuor we were getting up— -half a 
quatuor is not a duet, you know. As they ended, just a bar out, 
on one side of my room, a, wandering irirl would play ‘ Foam 
Wreaths ’ on whatever piano she found vacant, until she was turned 
out by the rightful occupant, then ‘ Ah, grace, ge-rac^l’ wmuld re- 
sound on the other side, A pupil-teacher in the next room was 
conscientiously twdrliug ‘ Ah, ah, ah!’ up the scale and down again 
against my particular Ldend Emilie driving through the ‘ Etudes 
de la Velocile;’ 'while overhead w'as a shrill thing winding up in a 
painful shriek, ‘Oh! ciel,’ which was all ] ever knew of the 
words.” Adrian laughed. “ At cne lime five girls were all learn- 
ing the same waltz of Chepin’s. It was distracting wdien thej^'all 
practiced it at the same time in different parts of the he use.” 

“ Y'our case w’as worse than a philosopher’s in a quiet street given 
up to double-barrel organs.” 

“Oh! those dreadful revolvers. But our mill- wheel went on all 
day, and then there was the solfege class, with the harmony- master 
singing a brick at a time.” 

They laughed. There was not much in Hermione’s speeches, 
but a light ripple of laughter ran through them all and communi- 
cated itself to her hearers, moistening the dryness of the ordinary 
cynic. The playful liveliness of her talk captivated Adrian, used 


84 


A Dll I AN BRIGHT. 


to people who treated art so seriously, looking for depths in every 
form of philosophy. Hermione’s face beamed with humor. 

“ But complete silence is worse than too much harmony. Wit- 
ness our hotel life,” she said. 

“They value their golden silence above their small change of 
speech,” said Adrian. 

” Once there was a break in ‘ the cold chain of silence.’ There 
was a man who used to laugh tremendously at every little joke, and 
one day some one made an enormous joke, and he nearly dis- 
located his jaw.” 

” What was the enormous joke?” 

” llermione, my love, will you come and take up a stitch I have 
dropped in my knitting?” said Mrs. Nugent, who by this time had 
heard from Linda that Adrian Bright was a seulptor, and lived 
upon a sculptor’s floating capital. Her daughter was safer under 
her shell— wing is too soft a term. Mrs. Nugent retired into her 
shell, and remained molluscous till bedtime, of which she was the 
first to break the new's. 

” W'hat a delightful evening' we have had,” said some middle- 
aged young ladies who usually did latti/ag as they shivered through 
an evening with bare arms and dresses open at the neck bke a V; 
others gushed a glowing acquiescence, while the new arrivals at the 
hotel voted the place ” awfully jolly indeed.” 

Mrs. Nugent sought an opportunity for conversation with Linda 
Fraser. 

” 1 am pleased to hear of your engagement, Linda, to a man of a 
certain position in this county.” Mrs. Nugent paused for the 
blushing reply that was not forthcoming. ” I hear there is a very 
fair property, and IMrs. Bright, whom I admit to be a person of 
sense, tells me the house is a fine one. Raby Hall has a good sound 
about it. This being so satisfactory, I should wish you to be mar- 
ried from my house.” Again she paused for the thanks wiiich 
were not gushingly rendered. 

” Thank you. but as the marriage wdll not come off immediately, 
it is a pity to decide upon details now.” 

” Why should it be a long engagement, Linda? The man is his 
own master. There only needs lime to draw up the settlements, 
■wdiich will, of course, be liberal, as they ahvays are wiien a good 
man marries a girl of small fortune.” 

A pause for reflection on both sides. 

” You are thinking of your trousseau a disclaimer this time. 
” I /idvise you to arrange most of that afterward; if you goto Paris, 
you can make it jmur study.” Linda Fraser remained dumb, so 
another pause occurred. It is hard work creating conversation. 
Mrs. Nugent went on the starboard tack. 

” Why did you not accept Mr. Prothero-Wilson, Linda?” 

‘‘He never asked me.” 

” He is devotedly attached to you — and in the most proper spirit 
came to me at once and asked my consent to his suit. Mind, I 
don’t blame you, Linda, being engaged to another man, though not 
equally rich; and, as probably yours is an alfair of inclination ou 
both sides, of course vou would not care to break off your engage- 
ment.” 


AI)RrA:N BRIGHT. 


85 


“ l\Ir. Wilsoi is a vulgar cockney.” 

'‘He tells me lie has over live thousand pounds a year!” In a 
tone of remonstrance. 

” He is odious, with his mannerism and aftectation.” 

” He is perfectly willing to make a liberal settlement,” 

” You say that is the fashion, so it doesn’t distinguish him above 
others.’’ 

” You are perverse, Linda, He is a man I should hardly have 
refused for my own daughter.” 

” I am much obliged to you. 1 do not like Mr. Prothero-Wil- 
son.” 

” Of course, as you are engaged to Mr. Haby, it were better that 
you should not,” 

” 1 am the last person in the world to marry for his money a man 
whom 1 despise.” Linda was indignant at having her engagement 
taken so easily for granted, mildly approved, and then summarily 
disposed of. 

” No one suspected you of common prudence,” said Mrs. Nugent, 
rising, to break o(f the conversation, ‘‘so it is satisfactory to find 
you do not mean to disgrace us after all.” 

These little amenities did not alter the tenor of Mrs. Nugent’s let- 
ter of congratulation to Mr. Haby, in which she trusted her house 
at Leeds would be Linda’s home until she married, and told him 
that the affianced of her late husband’s niece would be welcomed 
by her as a nephew— ns a son. 

George Rabv wrote in reply a pressing invitation to Mrs. Nugent 
to come wdth Linda to Raby, which she accepted. 

‘‘ This frees me, then,” said Mrs. Bright to Adrian, ‘‘ and none 
too soon, for return hrane I must within the w^eek. I suppose you 
will remain wdth iMr. Raby?” ■ 

Adrian w’as perplexed as to his next move. 

‘‘ Of course I must accompany the ladies to Rab}’’,” weighing his 
words as if each syllable weighed an ounce. 

‘‘ It will be sad waste of time, eh, Adrian?” said Tante, archly. 
“ A"ou don’t act the hypocrite well, my boy. Y’ou will make this 
your opportunity ; but though you have w’on the daughter” — Ad- 
rian’s eye& sparkled, it is so pleasant to find one’s hopes take shape 
in words — ‘‘ you wdll never gain over the mother,” 

‘‘ My profession is to work on stone. Aunt Lucy. You remember 
my heiid of 8t. Luke, hewn in granite.” 

‘‘ This is harder than granite.” 

“I like j\Irs. Nugent: she has taken care of my treasure these 
eighteen years, and Mrs. Nugent likes me; no bad foundation to 
build upon. You will see 1 am only a week behind a rich man,” 

‘‘ Nothing like golden youth for knowing its own value, Adrian,” 

Linda came into the room with Hermione. 

‘‘Oil, I am so glad we are all going together to Raby,” said the 
latter. 

‘‘All but me, dear girl,” said Tante; “I must return to Lon- 
tlon.” Hermione’s face fell. ” I can only stop to spend a day at 
Rievaulx Abbey.” 

ITenuione looked suppliant. 

” Oh, if we could go part of the way together! 1 must see Rie- 


86 


ADHIAIn- bright. 


vaulx Abbey too. 1 will set Professor Skinflint upon mamma; he 
shall tell her my education is incomplete without a knowledge of 
Kievan lx Abbey. It would be such inn if we could make a walk- 
ing lour, and get across country like you and liiuda did at the vil- 
lages I must get mamma to let me go ” 

“ She would be afraid of it for you.” 

” Oh, I should so like adventures with highwaymen, and other 
things out of the common way. We would wear no jewelry, and 
sew\ip our money in our hat crowns.” 

‘‘ To hide one’s money in the heel of one’s boot I’ve read of as a 
good place.” 

” Fancy on a walking tour if a threepennj'-piece went the wrong 
wa 3 %” said Hermione, laughing, ” it would be worse than a 
parched pea. I must fly and extort mamma’s consent,” and she 
ran blithely away. 

” Hermione should shake off childish ways at her age,” said 
Linda, severely. ” The innocence of babyhood is silliness in a girl 
of eighteen.” 

” it seems a pity to throw off the simplicity of childhood, as it 
must wear otit or be torn off by and by,” said Mrs. Bright. 

” AVhat you call simplicity 1 call affectation.” 

‘‘Agricola calls hedge-flowers weeds; a poet calls them ‘sweet 
wildings of Nature,’ ” said Adrian Briirht. 

‘‘ Her nonsense is but the sporiiveness of a kitten or a kid,” said 
Tante. 

‘‘She looks so lovely as she plays,” said Adrian, rapturously. 
‘‘ 1 could image her as Thalia at fifteeai.” 

‘‘ A man is always fascinated by a pretty girl, however nonsensic- 
al her chatter.” Linda was growing very angry. 

‘‘ You cannot twine the brook’s bubbling into a connected tale., 
yet there is a song in it,” said Adrian. 

‘‘ Nonsense is generally" wit run to seed,” said Tante, hoping to 
end the dispute % a sentence, as the king in old times ended a pas- 
sage at arms by casting down ids warder, 

‘‘ Hermione’s nonsense is only wit-and-water,” retorted Linda. 
‘‘ Though 1 believe her to be less silly than she seems, and more 
artful.” 

‘‘Then, by Heaven, art is perfected nature,” said Adrian, ve- 
hemently. 

‘‘ Why should she not be the same with me alone as she is when 
you are with ber?” asked Linda, defiantly, 

‘‘ Because you chill her sweet sunshine; bring a cloud over her 
brightness.” 

‘‘ Take care, Adrian ’’—Linda tried to look as if she gave a dis- 
interested caution. ‘‘ She is a mere butterfly, or less— a flirt. 
Though she is flattered by the admiration of a man of talent, a 
celebrity, she has been taught devotion to riches, until she cannot 
understand a higher good. Art in a cottage will not suit Hermione 
Nugent.” 

Adrian was silent. 

‘‘ She is a deal little girl,” said Tante, warmly, *‘ and 1 see in her 
a capacity for poetry, though smothered in an education of a wrong 
sort.” 


A Dill AX BlilClIIT. 


87 

The theme of their discussion entered the room and put to fliglit 
all theories and animadversions by selling a lively fact in their 
place. When Herniione was by they lived in the present moment 
and enjoyed it without care. She ran to Mrs. Bright. 

“ 1 may go to Rievanlx Abbey with j'ou.” Tante was delighted. 
“ jAIamma says she will make the excursion with us.” 

This altered the case, ceiiainly, but Tante would not let the al- 
teration be visible on her countenance as she busied herself about 
details. 

The lugnage was packed and sent to Barnard Castle, to be for- 
warded to Baby Hall. 

” Hew romantic this is,” said Ilermione, gayly, as she held up 
her packet of necessaries— packed under Tante’s direction. ” This 
is lilierty.” 

” This secures your independence,” said Mrs. Bright. 

” Independence is tne chief element of happiness,” said a visitor, 
as this subject was being torn to pieces at the luncheon table. 

” Or contentment, rather,” improved a less enthusiastic soul. 

” Ko one should travel empty-handed and throw all his burdeu 
on others,” said a guest in a white neckcloth. 

” No one should overluggage himself either, or he is overweighted 
in the race,” said another, a librsy-looking man. 

‘‘ A light purse and a light heart.” quoth another. 

” A long purse and a long face,” said another. 

‘‘ A sliort purse and a face still longer,” put in another. 

Everybody was eager to place a proverb, or his own aphorism. 
Professor Skinflint capped them all. 

” ‘ Omnia mea mecum porto,’ said Bias the sage, and 1 follow 
his precept.” 

” J wmnder if Bias alwa 5 ^s carted about such a lot of lra§h,” said 
the horsy man in an aside. 

Adrian ]b-ight had set the fashion of talking at Whitby; and 
every one talking made all the talk short. This is one cause of the 
liveliness of French conversation; like champag.ue, it sparkles and 
is forgotten. We Britons are either silent or prosy — but we are very 
solid.'” 

” The carr 5 drg trade is the largest commerce in the worhl,” said 
Professor Skinflint, bracing nimself up for another effort and ad- 
dressing ]\lrs. Bright. ‘‘Your practice of reducing luggage to a 
minimum would injure trade considerably.” 

The professor’s luggage, as we know, was bulky and heavy as 
bis own discourse, 

‘‘ But I make fiftj’ per cent, profit,” returned Mrs. Bright, laugli- 
ing. 

‘‘ Can that be justified on principle? I doubt — ” said the pro- 
fessor, so slowly that IMrs. Bright had time to escape during the gen- 
eral move from the table. 

‘‘1 envy you your proposed excursion,” sighed the clerical 
guest, pensively, as he clasped Mrs. Bright shand in farewell. ” Our 
ruined abbeys are poems in themselves.” 

‘‘ After all, the real country is better than second-hand London, 
■which Scarborough is, and 'Whitby tries to be,” said the man of 
thp livelier tie and horsy temperament. 


AD HI A K BRIGHT. 


88 

Mrs. Bright wondered why they also did not work out their holi- 
days rurally, as they envied her so much, 

‘‘One makes no pleasant acquaintances in out-of-the-way 
places,” was a strong objection. 

” One can't tell what to do with one’s evenings in country places. 
One has to take so much sleep in a lump,” was one still stronger. 
” Besides, it is a good deal pleasanter to read about it than to do it. 
It is generally a great fag.” 

This settled everything, for, after all, why should one encounter 
a great fag‘? 


CHAPTER XV. 

“ There’s nothing half so sweet in life 
As love’s young dream.” 

A GENERAL exodus from Whitby was impending. Most people’s 
holidays were over, and the professionally idle were dispersing to 
kill lime elsewhere. Mr. Prothero- Wilson announced his inlentioa 
of driving with some friends to Rievaulx Abbey, and offered seats 
in his coach to Mrs. Briglit and her part}^, but Linda insisted upon 
this being refused, and Mrs. Bright and her nephew preferred free- 
dom to ease. 

Mrs. Nugent was surprised at such rejection, but the knowleilge 
of a fashionable party making the trip to Rievaulx caused her to 
put few hiuderauces in the way of her daughter’s enjoying the ex- 
cursion while she paid a duty visit alone. A sudden letter cailed 
her to the sick-bed of an ancient relative living — no, dying — near 
Pickering, so, on Ilermione’s supplication, she allowed her to go 
with Mrs. Bright to Rievaulx, promising to join them at Helmsley 
on the following day. 

The railway journey from Whitby to Pickering is delightful. 
The latter part of it, through the vale of Pickering, is particularly 
lovely, with its varied tints of foliage and broken moorland, which 
is here quite dry, and has none of the moist, spongy appearance of 
the western moors, though one misses Hie rills and becks of the fellsr 
in the North Riding. 

They hailed under the shadow of Pickering Castle, and Adrian 
stowed J\Irs. Nugent carefully in the carriage sent to meet her. 

” You need be under no fear. We will take the kindest care of 
your sweet child,” said i\lr8. Bright, seeing that Mrs. Nugent had 
misgivings; indeed, had not tbe expectations from the relative in 
question needed nursing, she would not have left Herniione so un- 
guardedly in the way of Adrian Bright — the artistic, the gifted, the 
captivating, the devoted. . 

The littie part}’' went their own errant way, borrowing by bland- 
ishment a dog-cart, in which Adrian drove them across country to 
Kirby Moorside, whence they meant to walk next morning to 
Helmsley, on their road to Rievaulx. The old hostler stood 
Adrian’s cross-examination as he harnessed the cob to the vehicle. 

Rivaulx (according to him) was thought a ” nicish, prootyish sort 
of a place ” 

” He calls it ‘ Ribbis.’ I suppose it is the same,” said Adrian, as 
he repeated the hostler’s terms of approbation to his friends. 


ADRIAN H RIGHT. 


89 


They might also look at Elelnisley Castle, if they had a mind. 
"Was it inhabited? Laws, no! It had never been inhabited in his 
lime, nor in his father’s, nor grandfather’s before him. Me did not 
•know, he was sure; it might have been built in ruins; perliaps it 
■was, if people had such a mighty fancy for them in those days as 
they have now. Any way, it was no orood, only folks came to craze 
about it. He did not see much in it himself. 

Adrian drove to the While Horse at Kirby Moorside, as they had 
heard that was the inn where the gay and witty Duke of Bucking- 
ham died a beggar. 

“ ‘ In the worst inn’s worst room,’ etc.,” quoted Adrian, as he 
pulled the curtains, which were certainly sewn on tape, and “ never 
meant to draw.” 

“ Like me. 1 was never meant to draw^” said Ileimione, com- 
paring her school-girl sketches with Mrs. Bright’s book of exquisite 
bits. She was so simply and so fearlessly making the worst of her- 
self. 

” I can’t let you abuse the place,” said Tante. “ I am only too 
glad to be in an inn pailor once more, with life free and easy about 
me, and able to raise my voice to its natural pitch without becoming 
a brazen gazing-stock.” 

“It is^^good to exchanjre gilded fetters for moorland freedom,” 
said Linda, with a half-sigh, as she thought of her own bonds. 

“The inn is delightful,” said Tante, “with its nice, cherry- 
cheeked Phyllis, who waits upon us as if w'e were h^^r personal 
friends.” 

Here the mard came in with their tea and chops and a pile of 
whisky cheesecakes, recommended by herself. Adrian nearly 
startled her into letting them fall by asking suddenly if the Duke of 
Buckingham had died in this inn. 

“ Ko,” she said; at lesist, she had not heard of it. It must have 
been before she came; and she vanished. 

“Phyllis thinks I am slightly touched in the upper story,” said 
Adrian. “ She looked at me with such a mixed expression of 
.amusement and compassion.” 

“ Ko. sir,” said the maid, calmly, as she came in with the cream, 
“ the duke did not die here, but in a house over the way, where an 
old lad}’’ now lives quite alone. Shall 1 let her know’ you wish to 
see her, sir, as you was a friend of the poor, dear, departed duke?” 

“No, thank you,” said Adrian, trying to hide his miith in his 
handkerchief, as he caueht Hermiqne’s laughing eye. 

Phyllis looked sympathetic, thi'nuing he was weeping for his 
friend. 

“ He was a fascinating character, that Villiers,” said Adrian, 
looking again at the curtains, whose dingy red woolen damask 
strove with cottony-yellow orris lace. 

“ Take care not to resemble him too closely, Adrian,” said Linda,, 
sharply. 

“ To find any resemblance at all flatters me,” returned Adrian. 

“ What a tempting encouragement to versj tility lives even in 
Dryden’s warning lines,” said Tante; and she quoted: 

“ ‘ Blest madman, avIio could every hour employ 
With something new to wish or to enjoy.’ ” 


90 


ADKIAJS" BRIGHT. 


“ Alag, poor Yorick,” said Adriao, touched by the recollectiotf 
of Villiers’ fate. 

lleriuione pondered on the impossibility of Villiers having been 
more (lazzliugly talented than Adrian Blight, or more beautiful in 
person. 

A local train, ignored by Bradshaw, took our travelers to Ilelms- 
ley in time for the supper that \^as forced upon them by the over- 
flowinglv hospitable landlady of the Black Swan and her hakdmaid, 
who must have been the Kirby Moorside Phyllis’s twin sister. 
There were no other guests in the inn, October being well advanced, 
and it was, oh! so quiet, and so fresh, with scent of breeze off 
heather bloom. After the pomps and vanities and ceremonies of 
Whitby, it was like a taste of the jrolden age to sleep so peacefully, 
and to be wakened by sweet church-bells ringing, and the sun shin- 
ing to make life glad for them only, as it seemed; for there were 
no other visitors, and the inhabitants seemed cheerful in an}’^ case. 

By and by the happy quartet left the peaceful village and the old 
Kormau church, with its four large, pointed pinnacles of strong 
masonry, and, passing the quaint old houses, with black crossbeams 
in stripes and zigzags enlianJog their sunlit whiteness, they walked 
on to spend the rest of the Sunday at Rievaulx Abbey. 

“We have the choice of three turnings,” observed Tante, at a 
critical point, “ so we have ample means of going wrong.” 

They accordingly went as wrong as possible. 

“ But we have authority for this,” said Linda. “ Freeman tells 
us William the Conqueror lost his way at Ilelmsley.” 

Hermione was awed by Linda’s learning, but Tante knew she had 
read the passage in the guide-book that very day. 

They walked round a farmhouse to inquire the way to Rievaulx. 
They saw no one, but there were fowls about, and Linda said, 

“ Depend upon it, wherever there are fowls there is always some 
one to take care of I hem.” 

“ An axiom which sounds well,” said Adrian, “but, like other 
dogmas, fails in practice.” 

They could find no trace of human habitation at all; only pigs, 
cattle, and fowls. 

“ We have never seen a village so deserted,” said Tante; “ not 
even in depopulated Yorkshire.” 

They found out a pleasant way for tiiemselves, and soon came to 
the village; a very pretty village, which they knew to be the place 
they sought, by a stone built into a barn, with the word “ Rieball ” 
in Old English characters inscribed on it. Raising her eyes from this 
stone, ilermione exclaimed, “ Oh, how beautiful!” as a vision of a 
lovely gray cathedral in ruins suddenly appeared behind a vista of 
red-roofed cottages, and siDiring hollyhocks above the sun-smitten 
foreground flowers. 

“It looks like the ghost of a cathedral,” said Ilermione, in an 
awe-struck whisper, as they all stopped to gaze on this best and 
loveliest. among many lovel}" abbe}’^ ruins — so peaceful, so retired, 
in its deep valley, so sought, and yet appearing so unexpectedly at 
the moment of discovery in such a delightful surprise. 

“ The spirit of religion sanctifies this sweet hermitage,” said 
Tante. 


ADRIAN BRIGHT, 


91 


^ i 


But Adrian was absorbed in thelovely picture of Ilermione stand- 
ing, like an imaffe of reverent rapture, ‘'wiihiu tlie beautiful back- 
ground of the silver3"-gray cathedral, with its shadowy groups of 
graceful pillars, ivy-mantled windows, and slender Hying buttresses; 
her figure, in its light draperies, standing out in half-relief. 

“ That is an exquisite' subject for a sculptor, Adrian;” Tante 
motioned to the lovely figure with her hand. 

“ It is but too beautiful!” sighed he, from a full heart. “ I will 
work out the possession of that masterpiece,” said he, energetically, 
as, after a few moments’ pause of intense admiration, lie pulled 
Tante’s sketch-book out of her hand, and drew with the utmost 
rapidity. 

“ Stay a few moments as you are, Miss Nugent,” cried Tante, as 
Hermione moved to rejoin them, “ and you will be immortalized!” 

Hermione blushed as she saw what was being done, but remained 
in her position, the modest flush adding a further charm to her 
beauty, one that sculpture could not hope to represent. The sketch 
was exquisite, giving a foretaste of the loveliness of the bass-relief 
whose praise rang through London when it was seen in the Royal 
Academy next May. 

“ I can look at nothing more to-day,” said Adrian, when invited 
by the others to join them in wandering through the abbey transepts 
and the remains of the old monastic buildings. “ I will wait for 
you by this tree, and engrave my picture upon my memory.” 

“ He did so to some purpose,” thought Tante, some six months 
later, when she saw reproduced in the marble the herbage of trefoil 
and saintfoin that fathered round the feet of his “ Spirit of Relig- 
ion,” and the careful accuracy of the details of the church. 

Linda and Hermione laid in a stock of what the good woman who 
unlocked the doors for them called “ fortygrafts,” for the refresh- 
ment of their memory in future, and heard from her all she had to 
tell of the visit of the “artcheologies ” to Rievaulx, and the passage 
at arms between herself and Professor Skinflint concerning some 
early sculpture over a lintel, whereon they could clearly trace the 
Virgin Mary kneeling at a reading-desk, a vase of lilies dividing her 
from the angel Gabriel, and an outstretched hand in the sky. The 
dispute was long and sharp, and would have lasted indefinitely, but 
that a sound was heard which the woman described as a “ shudder- 
ing ” like what happened on a certain Christmas Day when a por- 
tion of the east transept fell, whereupon the professor fled, leaving 
the W’Oman mistress of the battle-field, and causing the guide-books 
to remain uncorrected to this day; 

Linda soon returned (o sketch the view that had so vividly im- 
pressed them at first, but her presence hardly roused Adrian from 
ids absorption, beyond the common politeness of borrowing a chair 
for her convenience. Ilermione did not like to place herself again 
where she might seem to wdsli to attract the attention of the young 
sculptor, so she glaiily agreed to join Mrs. Bright in a ramble 
through the woods, where they wound their to a terrace height 
commanding a view of the ground-plan of the abbey, and giving a 
good idea of its situation in Uie heart of a fertile vale, w^ell- wooded, 
watered, and stocued with all kinds of provision. 

This grass teri-aco, which is half a mile in length, has a square, 


ADKIAX lUilGHT. 


<)2 

classical temple at one end, and at the other end a circular temple 
containitig some Homan tesselated pavement, Mrs. Bri^i:ht and the 
young girl walked here and talked long, and grew to know and 
love each other; hut they spoke no word of Adrian, nor of the 
graven image that his lieart was fixed on making. The^" descended 
to the faimhouse, where the victor of Professor Skinflint, and her 
husband, who keeps the key of the Abbe3'-gates, made so templing 
a tea that tliey sent to call the two artists to the feast of cream-cakes, 
rich cake, bread-and-butter, and great slices of cheese, spread on a 
round table bj^ the coz^^ kitchen fire; all picturesque and pleasant 
as a Dutch interior. 

They themselves w^ent to bring the earnest students, as the coun- 
tryman’s calls failed to attract them, and found Linda pursuing 
art under diflicullies of the pressure of a nois}" and ill-behaved popu- 
lace of boys and girls, who ran in front of her, ate apples, and 
placed their hair-oit too near her nose. 

“ Adrian came to my defense when they began throwing stoneo 
and cores of apples,” said Linda; ” but 1 w’ould never have called 
him had not that tall girl’s frock destroyed the harmony of m3* 
picture.” 

A rude girl, in a Sunday frock, of a hideously staring blue, here 
flung a parting stone, 

” I have noticed that only naughty girls wear frocks of that 
color,” said Hermione, laughing. 

” People who wear that color, that particular shade of blue, 1 mean,, 
have no sense of ciace or beaul3%” said Adrian, wiio now reap- 
peared, to the children’s discomfiture. He recollected Mrs. Skin- 
flint’s blue veil. 

They could not stay to instil the fii-st principles of grace .and 
beauty into the noisy rabble, who make up for the penalties of 
learning the> humanities at school all the rest of the week b3’- be- 
having ill on Sunda3\ The3' were in their own right, on their own- 
soil, that they soiled; Linda was breaking the commandments; lhe3" 
were keeping Sniiday hol3% as they called it. 

. Among the mob was one graceful form; Adrian's quick eye 
caught it at once. A child, with a sort of duster tied round lier 
knees as a tiain, w’as moving and twirling in many attitudes of un- 
taught grace and beauty, as her dance led oft lightly, and leaped 
into a saltarelle in all the music of motion. 

” A natural actress tliat,” said Adrian, ” if she could be caught 
and taught; but another, with less talent and a cleaner face, will 
have the better hick to be caught instead, and the world will lose a 
Kachel or a Taglioni, and gain a well-drilled mediocritv.” 

” Don’t let us stare at that dirty child, we shall encourage her to 
beg,” said Linda, unaccountably blind to the grace that she had not 
herself discovered. 

” That cliild will never need to beg,” said Adrian, giving her a 
coin in payment for the sketch he had made. Linda asked to sec- 
it; it was a Venus Callip3'ge. IkTinione was all amazement. Hew 
worlds opened to her intelligence in every hour she was with these 
people. Ordinary modern education is so very blinding; is seems 
to deaden all our j 30 wers, and chiefly those of insight and ot out 
look. 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


9:^ 


It was dusk when they returned to Ilehnsley, and the bells w^ere 
chimin^: for evening church, so they entered and attended service 
together in the Norman churcli, all, or all but one, feeling happy 
and thankful for their pleasure. 

How mirthful they were together that evening over their tea, and 
how they enjoyed everything, notwithstanding that their bill, 
under its lithographed heading of liquors, could only leave a blank. 

“ What a pleasant episode this has been in our trip,” said Mrs. 
Bright. “ I am sorry it is over.” 

“ Time goes so much faster than it used to do,” said Hermione, 
out of her long experience. 

“ Time travels by steam nowadays, as Avell as everything else,” 
said Adrian, making a caricature of Time sitting in a first-class 
carriage with his scythe put up in the netting. And Mrs. Bright 
had to go Londons ard, and Linda norllH\ard to feed only on the 
memory of pleasure. 

Tante would not capitulate and stay a few days longer. 

” No, I must go home now, 1 liave so much setting-lo-rights to 
do. 1 always lose a fortnight about this time of the year; but 1 
throw the winter clothing in. I get that prepared for the family, 
so the time is not all lost. 1 calculate for one, multiply every- 
thing by thirteen, and there we are.”. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

“ The gods themselves cannot annihilate the action that is done.”— Pixdar. 

A MOTTO to a chapter is like the signature to a piece of music, it 
gives the key-note; and this was the minor wail of Linda Fraser’s 
song, that unilerlay all her bolder, more self-asserting major chords. 
Sadness was the dominant tone, a bitter sadness, that she had by 
her owui act, and that one the least selfish of her life, cut herself off 
from all hope of marriage with Adrian, with her only love — besid* 3 
lierself. Struggle as she might, she was in the toils, and they — 
they were all happy, without one thouglit of her misery, her 
wretchedness. 

” Let us make our way across the country to meet Mrs, Nugent 
in the train at Thirsk, by way of Byland Abbey,” Adrian proposed, 

” Oh, let us do so,” seconded nermione. 

“ We will think about it to-morrow, wdien w^e see wliat sort of a 
day it is,” parried the more prudent IMr.s. Bright. ” We must not 
run any risk of not meeting .Mrs, Nugent.” 

“As if wb' wau’C not equal to the feat of w^alking to Thirsk,” 
laughed all tlie young people, contemptuously. But ]\Irs. Bright 
Avas used to managing children. As wx* know, she had lliirteeii of 
them at home, and a husband and the British public to please be- 
sides. 

“ 1 have asked the son of the hotel about Byland Abbey,” said 
Adrian, next morning, when they a.ssembled on a perfectly fine and 
tempting day. “He does not think much of the ruins himself ; 
some folks do; but ll)ere is not much of it, ami he sliouldsay it w^as 
not w’orth while going out of one’s way to look at it— few people 
do.” 


94 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


“ He is wron^, perhaps prejudiced,” said Hermione. 

“ 1 think so too,” a<;reed Adrian. ” 1 feel sure lie is narrow- 
minded.” 

‘‘Now this is perplexing,” said Mrs. Bright, “because it will 
be a long walk for us if we leave the only train for the day at Cox- 
wold.” 

“ We cannot give up an Abbey,” said Linda, who longed for one 
last morning spent with Adrian in the free, open-air enjoyment 
which was not without its charm even for her. 

“Nor this one last day of freedom with dear Mrs. Bright,” 
supplicated Hermione. 

“ I shall wait to give you safely into your mother’s care, in any 
case,” said Mrs. Bright. 

“ Meanwdiile we are to be enricehd by adding this abbey to our 
trophy,” «jaid Linda, conclusively. 

The}’’ "were strolling as they talked; and climbing among the 
fine ruins of Helmsley Castle, whose proud keep still towers high 
above the sunny, red-roofed village, dwarfing the golden elm-trees 
round it into mere bushes. One side of the early Norman keep is 
still entire; the Elizabethan domestic part of the building reimiius 
in almost as good condition, and a barbacan still leads by a bridge 
across a deep moat, but the rest of the castle lies in heaps upon the 
ground. * 

“ And this is all that is left of ‘proud Helmsley,’ ” said Linda. 

“1 hope w’e shall find as much left of Bylaud Abbey,” said 
Adrian, lightly, as he sped on to take their tickets for Coxwell, 
whence they were to walk to Byland, and thence on to Thirsk—a 
matter of a good many miles, nine from Bylaud, even as they reck- 
oned it, wdien they talked so lightly of “ picking up the express 
train at Thirsk.” The little station was crowded by the camp-fol- 
lowers of the great lady of those parts, who was going to Loudon, 
and who seemed to be bearing oil tlie spoila opima of Helmsley. 
Her maid, her maid’s maid, a deputy maid’s maid, and a man- 
servant were carrying a host of packages. Hermione amused herself 
by w’atching the arrival of the luggage, two and-thirty large pack- 
ages, without reckoning jewel-cases, dispatch-boxes, strapped piles 
of books for the journey, heaps of w’rappers, furs, cloaks, and 
umbrellas, wiiich were brought up by hand. 

“ How lieavy is the burden of life for the rich!” said Mrs. Bright, 
with a mock sigh. 

“ 1 trust it will arrive safely in London,” said Hermione, laugh- 
ing. 

Adrian whistled an air from the “ Bohemian Girl ” as our lightly 
equipped passengers left the train at Coxwold, and stepped on to- 
w’ard Byland Abbey, the eyes of the countess following the lighter- 
hearted travelers witli some envy. 

Here again was a pleasing surprise, for, after walking two miles, 
the beautiful w'cst front of an abbey church in partial ruin appeared 
before them, and presently the ouiline of an ivy-mantled ruin of 
the purest Early Enp-lish style revealed itself. Here was delighl! 
They rushed to examine it more closely, overjoyed at having come, 
and at finding it so much better worth seeing than they had been 
led to expect. The w’est front is truly beautiful, with its three 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


95 


doorways, all differmc? in form, the central one arched with a 
trefoil, the north door with a pointed, and the sonl.hern with a 
round arch, and above these doorways a hue range of nine lancets 
with dog-tooth moldings, three of wtiich are windows. Above 
these again is the lower semicircle of a grand wheel window of 
large diameter, and an octagonal shaft with a pinnacle supporting it 
on one side. 

“ Is this abbey Norman or Gothic?” asked poor, simple-minded 
Hermione, who had picked up the leading idea that round aiches 
were Norman, and what she called Gothic arches were Gothic. 

Linda’s lip curled contemptuously at such childish questioning as 
hers. How coufd she be expected to talk of architecture with a 
girl who had not gone even as far as the ” Seven Lamps?” But 
Mrs. Bright took pleasure in kindly pointing out a few of the dis- 
tinctions that had not hitherto fallen in her way to be learned, and 
Adrian sketched in his book arch after arch, though all the forms 
and styles of transition, Early English, and decorated Gothic, feeL 
ing rewarded enough by the thankful intelligence in those beautiful 
blue eyes for giving a whole year’s work of architectural lessons 
with examples. He tielighted to point out to her tlie probable 
period indicated by the good, yet simple, sculptures on the pillars of 
the nave which hear channeled indications of foliage rather than 
actual carving, comparing them with the wronght-out foliation of 
the later and more decorated portion of the ruins of the chancel. 
Hermione seemed greatly interested. 

” She is not really stupid,” said Mrs. Bright, in reply to some of 
Linda’s disparaging comments, ” but she has not had your oppor- 
tunities of art-study.” 

Lind;i was too proud to utter her thought that Hermione cared 
most for Adrian’s attention. This \vould not have been true— at 
lea'st, not altogether true; she enjoyed learning about these things 
— youth always likes to be taught the beauty of beautiful things in 
the midst of the sweetness of nature by an instructor bent on mak- 
ing the lesson pleasant. But to say, on the other hand, that Her- 
mione would have liked as well to learn from Professor Skinflint 
would not have been quite true either. She w’as quite innocent of 
the knowledge, though the fact remained, that Adrian’s ]U’esenco 
was as sunshine to her, making the whole world one Elysium. 
And so wuis her presence to him, but be knew it perfectly well, and 
he hoped, and loved, and looked forward. 

Hermione was not so unobservant of architecture as Linda sup- 
posed. 

” The choir of Byland Abbey seems remarkably short,” she said, 
” after the prodigious length of these of St. Hilda’s and Rievauix.” 

” And yet here the choir is of the later date, while in both those 
the chancel is the earliest portion— indeed, at Rievauix, you remem- 
ber, there is no nave at all,” said Adrian. 

” It is a most interesting ruin, and well 'worth the careful attention 
of the ‘ arteiieologies,’ ” said Mrs. Bright. ” But we must not stay 
here much longer, as we have to be at Tliirsk in time for the ex- 
press. ” 

They walked on toward Thirsk, noticing the portionsof the abbey 
buildings detached from the main body which appear in and about 


96 


ADlilAX BRIGHT. 


the hamlet of Byland; and they admired the fine semicircular arch 
that spans the road leading out of the village. 

“ Oh, hero is gingerbread!” said Mrs. Bright, as they passed an 
attempt at a country fair in the shape of a booth of various sweet- 
stntfs. “ I must buy some to take liome to my chicks.” 

Adrian carried the packet for her, but soon, finding some fine 
blackberries by the road, he offered them to Hermione and to Linda, 
to eat with small contributions from the gingerbread, until, to their 
shame, nearly all was gone. Laughingiy they forced Tante and 
Adrian to finish up the rest, while they picked haws and berries in 
their turn, and all declared that they had never relished a luncheon 
more. 

Laughing and talking in this way, they took their walk easily, 
thinking they had plenty of lime to do it in w'itli most likely an 
hour to wait at Thirsk; but when they reached Kilburn, more than 
half-way to Thirsk, th«y saw on the finger-post that they had yet 
six miles to go to the town. 

“ And the. station is a long way from the town on the wrong side 
of ns,” said Adrian, looking somewhat anxiously at Elermione. 

Tante looked at her watch and pushed on, keeping up a speed of 
nearly four miles an hour in the first hour, and increasing the pace 
in the second hour to quite that rate or more, hoping that when they 
emerged on the turnpike road they might find some vehicle going 
to the town. 

” What a divine thing freedom is. provided one has not too much 
of it,” said Hermione, ns she left Adriau^s company lo Linda, and 
hurried on to Mrs. Bright. But Tante was pushing resolutely on, 
and could not spare breath for much talking; she could only smile 
at Hermione, wdiose merry prattle enlivened the way. Linda was 
silent, Adrian thought she was tired, and tried hard to get a seat in 
some kind of vehicle for them all. 

But it was market-day, and everyone was returning; market 
carls laden with sacks, live stock, men and wives. Adrian imrried 
on to try to get a fiy or a gig out from the town to drive his party 
in, and they pusheil on as bravdy without him. A clergyman driv- 
ing toward the town in a phaeton, empty of all but himself, they 
thought might be softened by an appeal to his charity to give at 
least Linda a lift to save the express, but Hermione’s most winuing 
smile implored him in vain. 

“ A clergyman so .seldom goes out of his way to do an ouf-of-the- 
way good-natured thing to Ins equals; ho will invite them to dinner 
pcrliaps in the regular course, and yet five minutes lift to the towui 
would have been a lesser sacrifiito,” said Linda. 

‘‘ And yet this is the age of Pliiladelphia,” said Tante, who felt 
vexed, ” with its institutes and charitable associations of all sorts.” 

Ill rmione did not understand the allusion to love of the brother- 
hood, and she had not time to lliink much about it, for a man in a 
cart drove rapidlj" by; breathle.'S Hermione assailed him with her 
request, but he said, in a regretful tone of voice: 

” I really can’t, mum, I be full of pigs, quite full of pigs;” and 
so, sure enough, he was, for they could see tliem under the netting. 
They diil not allow Iheir questions and entreaties to delay their pace 
for a moment, for they agreed tliat the one who had most breath left 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. . 97 

should ask for the lift, and make up for it by a spurt afterward, the 
others keeping up the steady pace. They entered Tliirsk ; the train 
was due, of course the omnibus was gone. The people said the 
station was nearly two miles further yet. Alas, alas! Ah, there 
M'as Adrian aloft on a very high gi|, keeping tight hold of a most 
vicious looking horse. ' ' 

“ Jump up, Tante dear, I’ll drive you to the station, and we can 
explain things to Mrs. Nugent.” 

” No, you give Linda a lift, she is the most tired, and we will 
come on as we can.” Adrian looked longingly at llermione, but 
she shook her head with the prettiest air of resolution, and hurried 
after Tante, who did not for one moment relax her spe^d, but went 
on quickly through the crowded market-place, whose picturesque- 
ness at another time siie would have enjoyed, but her whole soul 
was now bent on getting on. A phantom station came in sight as 
the two crossed a field. Hermione flew to take the tickets. "^They 
might have saved the train. But no, it was the gas-work«i, and a 
ditcher said, ” It’s a mile and a good bit yet.” Quite useless going, 
on now, for the time was up, a whistle Vvuis sounding, steam was on 
the horizon, but they did not give in. No, Tante fancied that the 
train might be going tliQ other way, and- she said nothing should 
stop her till she got to the station. So they too steamed on. and at 
the station there was a train! They were on the wrong side, they 
flew across the line, and, panting out ” A'^ork,” they fell headlong 
into a smoking carriage, disheveled, crimson and ticketless. Adrian 
was on the platform with Linda. He put her. hastily into the car- 
riage wu’th Mrs. Nugent, "who was horrified at seeing her daughter 
rush acrotiS the line in such a way. 

The guard came up. Had they time to chan.ge into another car- 
riage? He said they might get out, but they would be left behind. 
Adrian met him and softened his heart, for he came back relenting, 
and said he would do a good deal to oblige the ladies, and put them 
into the carriage next to lhat of Mrs. IS agent. 

” Can it be ourselves, and in the train, after all?” said Hermione. 

” Our credit saved and likewise our dinner,” said Airs. Bright, 
and they laughed tall their fellow-passenaers were astonished. It 
was a relief, after the exertion of the last two liours, the end of a 
run of fourteen miles, a run with the A'ork express, to find them- 
selves actually in a train that was this da}’' unpunctual for perhaps 
the one exception in its whole career, for the London, York, and 
Edinburgh express is painfully exact. 

” And yet we have caught it up by our own feet,” said Hermione 
to Adrian, with a smile of triumph. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

“ The bramble was king over all the trees of the wood." 

The train was nearing York. 

“Well, good-by, Adrian,” said Tante. ” I leave you here; I 
shall soon see you in London, I suppose?” 

Adrian did not answer this; he did not know what the Fhtes 
jiiight throw in his way, nor through how hard a wuill of rock he 


98 


ADRIANS BRIGHT. 


might have to hew his path. Fortunately, youth has a firm belief 
in Providence and his own right hand, and it makes him happy. 

“ Good-by, my sw^eet one,” she said to Hermione, who was half 
crying at the parting with this dear new friend. The whistle 
shrieked to give notice to the passengers to look at the towers of 
York Cathedral, and the fortress walls inclosed them round. Tante 
looked out for Mrs. Nugent’s carriage that she might say srood-by 
to Linda, who was going on to Leeds wdtii Mrs. Nugent and Her- 
mione; and Adrian, who was going on to Kaby Hall, meant to ac- 
company the ladies as far as Leeds. Accordingly lie took charge of 
Hermione, to place her in the carriage with her mother. 

So Tante and Linda parted where they intended to have met,. 
” beneath the walls of York;” and they parted without a farewell 
word; for no sooner had Tante got out to find a London carriage, 
than the other part of the train, the Leeds division, moved out of 
the station, and there was Tante running up and down, ” weeping 
and wringing her hands,” seeking her friends in vain. They waved 
their handkerchiefs wildly, but she did not see them, because the 
train wuis shunted to the opposite side of the platform, and so they 
parted. 

What a wonderful place is Leeds, to look at it from the train, so 
huge and so smoky! The crowd in its Regent Street is like the 
mob in the London Regent Street in the height of the season, and 
the crowded small houses in the outskirts are just like Stepney, 
'Wapping, and other metropolitan villages. It is indeed a place to 
scream at, as the landlady of the Cross Ke3’’S at Gainford said. 

Up to tile last Hermione hoped her mother might give Adrian an 
invitation to spend a few da} s with them, as they" were so soon 
going to lake Linda on her promised visit to Raby Hall, and Adrian 
v/as now actually on liis way to Raby. But Mrs. Nugent was a 
diplomatist, and under cover of interest in his movements contrived 
to find out when he would be leaving Rab3^ that she might time her 
own visit accordingly. And the young people thonght she w’as 
good-natured (!) for all that she seemed to have forgotlen that Adrian 
might possibly care to see Leeds, and visit Kirkstall Abbey in com- 
pany with Hermione. 

Disappointed at heart, Adrian was obliged to take leave of the 
ladies at the staiion. He told Hermione he should make his way on 
foot to Raby Hall, where he whispered he hoped to meet her again; 
so the last glance from those beautiful eyes w^as a bright and hope- 
ful one. 

IMoodil}’^ enough he took his three-mile walk to Kirkstall Abbey 
and looked at it. But somehow he did not seem to care for abbeys 
now this afternoon, although the oblique, low sunlight glowetl upon 
it in all its splendor, and lit it up as if with magic fire. 

He turned away and took the train to Oiley, intendin2r to soothe 
himsclt by w'alking through the calm valleys by the Washburn, and 
seeking his idiilosophic friend once more. 

It was still daylight as he wmlked- on through that quiet dale; the 
thickets full of birds made .the air vocal with their evening gather- 
ing, the owls began to hoot, and the silvery wdiite moths were still 
blinded enough by daylight to thump recklessly against hi.s face and 
gray felt hat. He came suddenly upon the bhilosopher; by no 


ADRIA.K BRIGHT. 


99 


means philosophically alone, but surrounded by a troop of young 
people, mostly girls, tugging uj) roots of the tough, deep-set aborig 
inal plants in a piece of moorland that he was actively converting 
into a garden. He was the patriarch of the party, calling them all by 
their Christian names — the names by which he said they would only 
be known in hei..ven, which made it much more important that they 
should have musical and lovel}’’ names bestowed on them at baptism, 
than that they should be called Miss Vere de Vere, or the Hon. Lady 
Washburn. But all tlie young people’s philosopher-worship did not 
make them seem displeased at the advent of a young and handsome 
stranger. Ethel , forgot to tug her root, Christabel looked at her 
muddy shoes, Lucy smoothed her hair, and Rosalind refused to tug, 
saying: 

“ If you do anything witJi your hands they will get ugl}''.” 

In fad, they liad nearly ail had enough of tugging, and only 
lugged because in the country there is little else to do in company, 
wherefore we decorate churches, etc., so painfully and energetically 
at Christmas. One girl only sat apart from the rest, and did not 
look at Adrian. She was drawing, and her own form was graceful 
enough to make him look at her, and care to look at more than Ihe 
averted face as she sat serene, embow'ered in golden foliage, under 
the exquisite sky of evening, while yet it is' not night; her dress of 
subdued blue, with violet sleeves, and white ruffles, harmonizing 
€Osthetically with the softened shading of the sky. At length she 
loo slopped her work, and brought the drawing to our friend the 
philosopher, still passing Adrian without a glance. He looked at it 
carefully; it was good work, and carefully, if somewdiat arrogantly, 
done. He praised it with great praise, and at last the young lady 
asked, with easy confidence; 

“ Do you think, sir, I shall soon draw as well as Turner? Turner 
is the idol of the Valley of Washburn.” 

The philosopher was at first struck dumb, and he could not for 
some time gain strength to do more than mutter: 

“Ask this gentlemau ’’—meaning Adrian— “ what he thinks of 
the likelihood.” 

She turned away coldly, saying: 

” I do not care for. the opinion of young gentlemen.” 

Adrian was busy tugging at a root, helping one of the little 
maidens who had nearly upset herself in her struggle with a deep- 
set fern. The other maidens smiled. Adrian seemed only bent upon 
getting up the root, though he was always incidentally wudching 
the motions and muscular action brought out by any hearty, real 
exertion of strength and wdll, such as was truly u,sed by the little 
maiden wmrking for the glory of a heap of trophies in the right 
Greek spirit; not emplo3XHl so as only to look like working, as is 
the usual fasliion of young ladies interested in no result. 

Another representative of nortliern modesty came on the scene in 
the form of a young man, a jmung medical student, very fresh from 
Edinbiiigh, and brother of the would-be Turner, who had come to 
escort her home. 

” Ah, what are we all about here,” he said, surveying the party 
with a patronizing air, philosopher and all. ” How twuly nice this 


100 ADRIAK BRIGHT. 

is. This is wiiat we medical men appwove of, getting an appetite 
for dinner,” 

” 1 should rather call him a medical boy,” whispered Adrian’s 
little friend to him. 

” Oh, shocking!” said he, reprovingly. 

Adrian saw that there was nothing physically admirable there, 
though they might extract some amusement. 

” i call it weally quite Gweek.” The medical youth smiled on 
them blandly. ' 

Adrian offered him a tough stump to tug at, saying, 

“ your own prescription.” 

” Not so gwecn. VVe medical men never twy our own pwescwip- 
tions.” 

” His dear little hands were never made — ” began the incorrigible 
maiden. 

” Hush!” said Adrian. “ He’ll hear us, and he might make an 
end of us, you know.” 

” But Mr. Fairfax,” said the medical boy to the philosopher, ” is 
this weally your notion of female education, to make the dear cweat* 
ures work like plowboys? 1 shall weally have to stand up for wo- 
men’s wights. I must use our pwivilege, and stand up for the sex,, 
weally and twuly. As that pwelty song says about maw wyiiig.’" 
He began to hum. “ Tut, tut, how does it go? Oh, like this: 

“ ‘ Tliere sits a bird in evewy twee, 

Sing heiglio, sing heigho. 

Young maids must mawwy, 

Young m-a-ids must mawwy.’ ” 

” Ho\v man}’’ of them do you propose to marry i” muttered the 
saucy nymph. 

” Don’t be so absurd, Robert,” said his sister. ” You are mak- 
ing yourself ridiculous.” 

” 1 see only one widiculous thing here, and that is this wubbish,” 
he said, taking up the ‘‘ Turner ” picture, ” where you are descend- 
ing to imitate all Turner’s mannewisms and w’ed-hot skies, W’hen 
you should stwike out into an owiginal path. Don’t you agwee 
with me, Mr. Fairfax?” 

The idea of a young woman in 1(S81 beginning an entirely original 
walk in art was too much for the philosopher to entertain, and he 
could not answer. He began to dismiss all his little court. 

” Are you weady, Juliet, or must I w^ait till to-mow’wow?” asked 
the youth, not liking to be left among a herd of girls not yet his 
equals in experience. . 

Adiian. on the contrary, stayed to help them with their wraps and 
traps, and made himself prodigiously popular among the flock; and, 
after their fona farewells, gave Mr. Fairfax his arm over the broken 
ground to the house. The philosopher gave vent to his indignation 
at the amazing impudence ot the modern art student, 

” The only ones among us wdio had done no manner of useful 
W’ork, could yet set us no example of love or admiration. By what 
can such persons live?” 

” They live entirely upon hope, 1 suppose,” said Adrian. 

” Upon an entirely sellish hope, which will never ripen into whole- 


AI)KIA2Sr BRIGHT. 


101 

some fruit Jor them, never having been warmed by the rays of love 
nor seasoned in the patient, reflective moonlight of admiration. As 
a friend of mine says — my friends are so few and choice that 1 can 
quote their sayings—* For fifty years back modern education has 
devoted himself simply to the teaching of impudence, and then we 
complain that we can no more manage our mobs.’ For admiration, 
hope, and love, we have got contempt, futility, and frand.” 

Here was a long, thoughtful pause. They neared tlie philoso- 
pher’s dwelling. 

“ At times I think we bring out more conceit and self-esteem by 
teaching Art than any counterbalancing good quality we can de- 
velop. Of late I have seen but one work of landscape modest yet 
masterly, and it was a woman’s.” 

That woman was Mrs. Bright, whom we had seen painting in 
the dales of Wharfe and Washburn. 

On the hill slope, backed by fir-trees and glimpses of the moor- 
land strata, stood the small, low house, a mere cottage, as simply, 
plainly built as possible, in two floors, with six front windows, of 
wiiich the upper and lower ones facing the left hand were in three 
divisions, indicative of the more important rooms. On the right 
hand, and level with the upper story, was a small hexagonal turret, 
'or rather lantern, wholly made of wood and windows, which the 
philosopher had caused to be constructed, that he might see the 
sky in its many varying aspects? built to hold the sunshine as other 
people have glass rooms built for the display of flowers. 

The walls were partially trellised, to support the gentler growth 
of trailing plants; and between the middle windows aristolochia and 
large-leaved ivy hung their dense wreaths from terrace border to 
the roof itself; manifesting at ouce the size of their foliage and the 
house’s smallness. A low, unmortared wall of well-fitted stones 
quarried from the moorland side, sustaining a hedge of various 
half- tamed plants, inclosed the little garden in the midst of the slop- 
ing fields. Shrubs and standard roses stood about upon the little 
lawn, and now sent up their latest tribute of sweetness to the seat 
on the terrace before the house. 

The whole place looked scrupulously neat and clean, even to the 
point of having bags for the tassels of its white-linen window-blinds; 
but it was most invitingly homely, and gracious in its neatness as 
Pyrrha herself; unlike the abode of a man at once a bachelor and a 
philosopher, with tendencies toward art and the picturesque. 

The owner of this freehold spoke again; 

“ I painfully^ misdoubt me whether my life’s aspiration has not 
been wrongly directed. • 1 thought to civilize, to purify, the world 
by teaching art; and 1 fear me 1 have inculcated only pride. Youth 
seems to think that to draw an object badly is as great a feat as to 
make that object well. As if, by reading the thoughts in a book, 
those thoughts belonged, to him as much as if he had written the 
book and thought out its conclusions. 1 fear me I have lielped to 
foster spiritual pride, that old serpent in our midst. Peccavi, 
Peccavi; but 1 repent that 1 have ignorantly, foolhardily, wrought 
evil in the earth.” 

At another time Adrian would have argued stoutly, boldly, in 
defense of a universal possession of art; at auy rate, of such art as 


102 


Amu AN BRIGHT. 


one can create for one’s self, as an inborn right of the God made 
man, a need as natural to him as breathing air; and he would have 
maintained that all our rulers have to see to is that we should be 
abundantly supplied with art of the best quality as models, and that 
false or w’ortliless public art should be destroyed, as weeds and rub- 
bish. lint now he felt no force to fight for his own theories. He 
could be eager for nothing but his love; now that his hope of Her- 
mioue hung quivering in the balance, he could think with energy 
of nothing else. They sut awdiile on the terrace talking* or, rather, 
the philosopher talked, and Adrian listened, as much as be felt in- 
clined to do. 

“ You ma^’’ smoke if you will,” said Mr. Fairfax. “ I never 
smoke myself to help out thought; the ros€s and the moorland 
thjnie bring me balm enough for soothing. But you young men 
all look forward to the discovery of some new brain-forming 
material that shall replace the waste you cause by tobacco and other 
exhaustive stimulants, as our generation has been enabled to re- 
place its teeth, which our hardier forefathers never lost; so, if you 
will to dandle off your cares, and expend yo*ur brain tissue in a 
more ethereal form of dnmkenness, you need not find my company 
a hinderance; for, to speak plain truth, 1 like your society well 
enough to take it at a discount, as your usurer’s grammar hath it. 
As a fair exchange, 1 would swallow your smoke for the sake of 
getting you to swallow my hypotheses.” 

But Adrian w’as no smoker; and, even had he been so, he w^ould 
have found the professor’s talk answer the purpose of tobacco, in 
being at once sedative and gently stimulant, as he rambled on dis- 
cursively through a vast range of subjects, on each point having 
and holding what seemed the firmest of convictions. Adrian was 
not aware that, like an able lawyer, he could have spoken just as 
strongly on the other side, had that superficies first chanced to re- 
tain him, by captivating his taste, or ofieriug the joys of argument. 
He was in the self-contradictory position of beiu 2 : a Tory who 
ivanted to turn the wmrld upside dowm; of being at once a devoutly 
Christian believer and the preacher of a beautiful eclectic paganism; 
a lover of art and a denouncer ot all artists, alive or dead, save 
some twu) or three in each category; a recluse student, who yet 
could not exist without constant contact w'ilh the choicest of his 
fellow^ spirits; a dweller in Hie midst of a tamely beautiful moor- 
land loneliness, wdio yet might be found at any moment reveling 
in the midst of the wildest Alpine scenery, or feeding on the 
choicest w’orks of man, in any of the art cities of Europe, as his 
daily bread. On twm points only he was immiitabl}’^ fixed iu faith. 
Perhaps his creed, as deducible from his w’ords, and nearly all his 
works, was, ” 1 believe iu J. iff. TV. Turner, as the creator of the 
pictorial heaven and earth, and 1 hold machinery as the devil imper- 
sonate. ” 

” We are hungry after our work,” said* the philosopher. ” Let 
us feed as we stroll on.” 

A loaf stood on a platter in the vestibule, with a great glass dish of 
grapes near by, both green and purple. He cut bread tor both, and 
handed Adrian a thick crust, whale-boat shaped, and a cluster of 
grapes fine enough for the spies in Canaan ; and then, with this food 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. - 103 

in tlieir hands, they walked out among tlie bats and silver ghost- 
moths, 

I'lie dell, that was so busy with merry children’s voices only this 
afternoon, was now deadly silent as Adrian and his elderly friend 
walked past it by the glimmering of the low hunter’s moon, on 
their way to the pleasant meadows by the rippling Washburn, the 
philosopher talking I know not what of philosophy and art, of the 
regeneration of society by means of his theories, and ot scenery by 
evolution out of Turner’s pictures. Tlie place was utterly dark* and 
silent; even owls did not wake it up by booting, as its recesses 
contained no food nor shelter for the small vermin they prey upon. 
Part of it was a bog in process of formation, unless a strong hand 
should come to reclaim it. There was no sound of water; no drop 
could filter through the oozy mud, where it could only stay and 
make every tender shoot damp o5E to death, and leave the tough 
stems to grow^ tougher and more slimy to resist the hand that 
should essay to tear the binding strings of this morass. 

A place not foul, because situated in the midst of purest air, but 
useless by force of mere crowding in ill conditions of vegetable 
growth; showing what -the 'thorn and thistle will bring forth to 
man who has not far long replaced them b}’- corn tilled in the 
sweat of his brow, or watered, maybe, with his tears. It was vege- 
tation run mafl as in turmoil of struggle to be first out of danger 
and evil condition, where blackthorn wrestled with birch, and 
brier tore its way upward to the light through the mass of bramble 
which only ran to stem, and burgeoned not to fruit nor even flow- 
ers. The whole wilderness within the circling fence of yellowing 
bracken fern, whose roots the children had been tugging, was rank 
with damp and choking moss and clinging weed, rising feebly out 
of the black mass of dead, dying, or struggling vegetation of for- 
mer years, years of suffering and perishing, years of the curse. A 
vegetation which had not even scope to ferment and rot gently into 
ridi black mold, but which w^onld by and by avenge itself for 
long neglect by floating upward as malaria, from out of its stagna- 
tion, 

“ That is the conquest of the thorn,” said the philosopher, ” The 
thorn on bad ground; the thorn which does not propagate i(.self 
easily, typifying crime. See what the thistle does. Tlie thistle 
represenis vice.” He pointed to some patches dimly discernible as 
weeds in a fallow field. ” The thistle shows what really good 
ground is there. It grows on the best, the fattest land. Lightly 
and imperceptibly fall its countless seeds after their happy sail 
through the air, tempting to catch, interesting, even beautiful, to 
look at. Leave them to fall, and see the crop that springs and 
multiplies. Vice boldly, insolently, says, Touch me not, or you 
touch me not with impunity. Crime cowers away, when unable- 
to resist man’s hand, into the dark, dank places of the earth. Yet 
what might not the thorn have brought forth? The mayflower. 
Does not this parable teach us what might have been, may still be, 
done for our fellow-creatures, steeped in vice, choked in crime?” 

They might have rambled on in talk snd wail'k forever. There 
seemed no reason why they should ever have stopped. At long^ 
lengtli a projecting root, or other roughness in the broken ground. 


104 


ADlilAX 13JUG1IT. 


brou£?lit the copious philosopher to pause by causing him to stum- 
ble. It was a root torn up and left lying about. 

“ A weed,” said the preacher, finding a text in everything, ” is 
in all circumstances a plant in the wrong place. In our blindfolded 
work we only found another wrong place for this particular weed. 
How many philosophers have been brought up short in their good 
works by some overlooked detail.” 

Yet our philosopher was wrong, for this might have been a 
potato— in the wrong place certainly ; yet can a potato ever be fairly 
called a weed? 

” Were I a doctor,” thought Adrian, “ 1 would recommend my 
patients a philosopher to talk them to sleep. 1 should call it the 
didactic process.” 

The weed was so far opportune that it turned their steps home- 
-ward to where a tempting supper welcomed them, in a room lit 
only by a swinging lamp of Venice glass turned very low. Two 
covered plates, with just twm cutlets and some sauce, stood on tw^o 
quaint brass ” footmen” by the fire. A claret jug, fancifully 
wrought in silver, stood on a table, with some glasses. The grey- 
hound who had followed them in their w^alk crunched the bones, 
and afterward shared the sofa with his master,* and so fully’^ shared it 
that by degrees he edged his master over the side, three eighths in 
play, five eighths in earnest, until the philosopher found himself 
deposited at full length upon the floor, and the dog master of the 
position. 

Live embers in the fireplace tempted them to sit up late, though 
all the household, whatever it might consist of — and Adrian had 
seen in-doors no living creature besides the dog — had been long in 
bed; and ” deep into the night they sat conversing.” 

The philosopher had been so long alone, with I^ature for his play- 
thing, rather than his companion, that he was glad to meet a 
friend. He called Nature his wife, but he treated her as a spoiled 
darling rather than a noble matron. The children who followed 
him about were to him as much a part of the general companion- 
ship of Nature as might be his greyhound or a petted cast. He wuis 
glad to stretch his mind (which he felt at times to have the cramp), 
to pit his intelligence against an equal force, as in a game of skill. 
All men at times need this, however keen their hankering for the 
hermit’s idle pleasures. Eve must have been of intellectual grasp 
equal to that of Adam, only differing in her lines of interest, or else 
she could not have been his companion, the helpmate for him. 
Adam would still have been alone. 

“But I am resting here” — the philosopher had reasserted his 
right to the sofa, and the dog submitted to moral force with a grey- 
hound’s grace — ” I am resting here, and you need rest perhaps. 1 
have been telling you my life, pouring out my newest enthusiasms 
of the just past weeks, such as 1 generally' hatch here and then let 
loose upon the world; and I have not let you tell me your last day, 
y'our last few hours.” 

Adrian looked back upon himself. Could it have been only to- 
day that he was lAmbling wdth the beautiful and loved Hermione 
among the crumbling historical ruins and wdld yellow’ing shrubber- 
ies of Helmsley, meeting the playTully pleasant surprises at Byhind, 


ADKIAN BRIGHT. 


105 


nn(’ enjoying the long quick race to save their train? It seemed so 
long ago, such days, such weeks ago. He had passed through so 
many phases of feeling since then, such bliss in her sweet presence, 
such chance of seeing her daily, such hope of making her his own 
forever, and such hope deferred. This seemed now so long ago 
that he felt as if his holiday had passed in talking phdosophy with 
Mr. Fairfax, his whole strength employed in tneging roots with 
Mr. Fairfax’s little neighbors, whom the philosopher fancied he 
was training in the path of virtuous industry. Adrian was not sorry 
to be released from the labors of philosophy, to be free to think his 
own thoughts, to tug at his own heart-strings. 

I must learn my fate, whatever it may be, or make my fate,” 
he said. And with the early morning light he left the house, and 
walked on straight as the crow flies, crossing hill and dale and river 
undeviatingly toward Raby. 


JPIIAPTER XVni. 

“ The moon is in her autumn glow. 

But hoarse, and high the breezes blow, 

And, racking o’er the face, the cloud 
Varies the tincture of her shroud. 

On Barnard’s towers and Tees’ stream, 

She changes as a guilty dream, 

When conscience, with remorse and fear. 

Goads sleeping fancy’s wild career.” 

Rokeby. 

Three days at Leeds, with life truly going on in ceaseless whirl 
outside, but within doors, in Mrs. Nugent’s villa, only marked by 
every luxury of the flesh to ease the friction of the gliding mo- 
ments. Soft rugs are on every floor, sofas in all the bedrooms, 
every sort of scent and every texture of towel in all the dressing- 
rooms, and cans of hot water thrice a day, with additional tubs of 
water morning ami evening, cooled to meet the theory or liking, are 
ready as if by magic; and there is nothing to do but rest from doing 
nothing, to recruit the frame wearied by travel from one easy-chair 
to another more endurable to read a novel in, more possible to ply 
the needle, silk, and golden thimble, turquoise-set, to do a few 
stitches ot fancy-wmrk in, and to digest the five meals a day spread 
by invisible hands. Genteel life being really all one first-class 
waiting-room, it needs all these and more alleviations to make it 
bearable. » 

Three days of this, what Mrs. Bright would have called ” linger- 
ing death,’*’ through which Linda fumed and Hermione fluttered 
among various minor occupations, none of which had power to 
drive away the taste of sentiment mixed in sweet and bitter of the 
week just over, passed by these two beautiful heroines out of 
work, before the time fixed for them to proceed to Raby Hall. 

Mrs. Nugent alone was busy; she had to see to her possessions, 
lecture the girls, scold her maids, perform her other social duties, 
and plan her next campaign. The mistress of a house has always 
plenty to do, this is her profession, here she shines; elsewhere she 
js only a waif, a dropped leaf, a butterfly, a straggling seaweed, a 
passenger. There is no place like home for her; but then, it must 


ADRlAls BRIGHT. 


106 

l)e her owu home, not one lent by other people. Elsewhere she is 
•unimportant. Hut for lovely girls it is different. They are heroines, 
or else they are nothing. Yet who can be a heroine to one’s father 
or clumsy brothers, or even to the horrid selection of 3 ’^oung men 
one’s brothers may happen to bring home. Brothers have sucdi bad 
taste in young men. As to the young men themselves, we have seen 
liow little happier Adrian was than they— and yet, of course, they 
envied him, those two young girls. 

Oh, how glad was Linda to pack her trunk and go away, gypsy- 
like, to be on the move, to go anywhere, so that she could escape 
the stifling of this house that was not her home, and which yet held 
no noveltv^ nor even the smallest interest for her. She cared as 
little for Baby where they were going, and cared not at all to meet 
lier unloved lover; but Baby Hall was seated in the heart of the wild 
moorland, and there was at least the interest of fencing with some 
one who loved her, in wdiat was on her side a diplomatic struggle. 
Oh, the comfort of being “ o2,” leaving all these comforts of the 
skin, these salves of life, w'here a fly in tlie .ointment is noxious as 
a wild beast in a larger area of roaming. “ Off,” as one is thankful 
to leave the railw'ay station where one has w^aited for one’s train, 
oven though the next stopping-place may contain no more relish 
lor us than did the last. It is movement, and we are on the road 
to our goal, be it Borne or Switzerland, Jerusalem or a happy future; 
all else is by the way. 

And now they are at Baby, met by George Baby and his noble 
dog, of the size and tawn}' color of a 3 mung but full-grown lion. 
31rs. Nugent looks round her, satisfied for the future of her niece, 
as she sips the tea and cream, in exquisite old -heirloom cujrs, that 
w’elcome George Baby’s guests. Mr, Esdaile is there with his sis- 
ter, w’ho acts as hostess. Her large size, stiff silk dress, and starched, 
old-fashioned manners, suit that patriarchal house, now in October 
all on fire with pyracanthus and Virginia creeper, glowing with 
added scarlet in their contrast with the blue ashlar; the burning 
brasier of the house echoed and re-echoed in the higher and lower 
fishponds, which gleam like terraces of rippling flame-color set in 
the midst of distant hills, and the smoke of cumulus clouds, some 
gray, some white and soft, like the fleecy mass escaping from the 
flying engine of the railroad. And Grouse, the noble tawnj" set- 
ter, is bounding and baying for jo\" in the foreground. George 
Baby, alw^ays tlie typical Englishman in his noblest form, looked 
his best when acting host; and Linda felt a thrill of pride that'he 
and all this— which, after the gemility of the Leeds villa, with its 
iletails modeled on the fashion-books, seemed so fine in its ancestral 
respectability as entirely to content her taste — all this was at her 
command. Slie meant in her secret heart to refuse it all, yet it was 
pleasant meanwhile to be proud of it, and to know' that she had it 
to refu.se. It wuis the ideal dwelling of ” The fine old English 
gentleman, all of the olden lime.” Here all things had the grace 
of age; the soft color-tones had the mellowness of good things wxdl 
preserved; the furniture had the breadth of space and suitability to 
a large race about it; the chairs required one's whole strength to 
lift them, and the tables could not be lifted at all— they had as 
2nuch limber in them as many a modern house. There were no 


ADRIAiq- BRIGHT. 


107 

knick-knacks but such as would have served a Brobdingnagian; for 
the Rabys had been from immemorial time a large-boned tribe, 
reared upon other cereals than merely the finest of Vheaten fiour; 
men who took their barley ns much in' the form of bread as of beer, 
a tribe to whom all flimsiness would have been inappropriate. 

Tlie bread-and-butter of welcominir truly was thin, but it came in 
so large a plateful of broad slices that large appetite was shown to 
be the expectancy of the day. The silver jug held at least a pint of 
cream, the cake basket— in the form of a shield witfi its manreling, 
the Raby crest (a raven) surmounting the handle, and the old Raby 
arms engraved on the shield forming the bottom of the basket — 
contained several pounds of various cakes, and everything else was 
drawn to scale, in life-size or colossal; miniature and niggling had 
here no place. 

In perfect order though it was, Raby Hall was essentially a 
bachelor’s home, but a home handed down to the bachelor in ques- 
tion from many generations of matronhood, each generation of 
which had left its traces in a whole history of feminine needlework 
on a large scale, showing the orderliness of the family and the even 
tenor of their lives, when time and trauquillit}'^ admitted of such 
large pieces of work as embroidered bed-quilts and hangings being 
made at home, and fine toilet lace and a large parlor carpet to 
be all produced by stitchery of the needle, making that home a 
reality — a sweetness — a family historial record. There were other 
smaller pieces of needlework in abundance, such as framed samplers 
of folio size, so to speak, and chair and table covers, showing the 
varying fashions in design and stitch for over three hundred years, 
in which it was amusing to trace the vigor or decadence of national 
art as cultivated by females, and there was yet space among the 
needlework pictures for the next mistress, in case it shouhl be 
Linda, to show the change in the fashion of fine art executed by 
ladies, which is now tinted in water-color instead of in silk and 
gold. 

Black and white tracery is now shown m handwriting, or in 
scrawl of pen-and-ink sketches, instead of fine thread lace in dainty 
devices of loop and filigree. We need make no more of this kind 
of decoration for our persons or our furniture, since Nottingham 
wan turn us out miles of it at the rate of seven pounds six shilling& 
and eightpence a mile. 

In case Miss Esdaile should be the future mistress of Raby Hall.;, 
she would add crochet to the museum of fancy-woik trophies, and 
turn out furlongs of broad trimming, and bed quilts of vast weight, 
not representing warmth in any measure adequate to their avoirdu- 
pois admeasurement. But Miss Esdaile was, as horse-racing people 
say, out of the running. She was almost an elderly lady: perhaps 
her size and figure, bony and angular, and her style of dressing, 
handsome and antiquated, made her appear older than her years, as 
the artificial cobweb gives a smack of age to wine; for these things 
are signs of the good old days, when people had time and space to 
develop in body as well as in intellect; whereas the young fashion- 
able folks run all to brain— if anything. But, though not consid- 
ered an intellectual lady. Miss Esdaile had written a book. It was 
not published, nor intended for publication, being strictly her pri- 


108 


ADRIAJT BRIGHT. 


vate property, anil she would bestow it, with her hand, upon the 
lucky man whom she should take into future partnership; and he 
would enjoy not only the book, but all the result of her book learn- 
ing. It was a manuscript cookery book, written in fine cuneiform 
character, the result of the experience of ? ? years of her own life, 
and of many hundreds of years of oral tradition. 

In a morning bright to wake up by, but too full of rainbows to 
last as line, George Raby had his large four-wheeled dog cart 
brought round to take some of the party out to see the country. 
Scargill and Brignall Banks, formed beautiful by Nature, and made 
yet more exquisite by Scott — for the poet can cultivate and fertilize 
the ground as well as the plowman or the florist, through in a differ- 
ent manner: he adds a grace and charm they possessed not before, 
or which were latent as jewels in the mine. They planned to walk 
by the Greta as far as Rokeby, and meet the carriage again at the 
Aiorritt Arms. Raby was to drive the three ladies as far as Scargill 
Cliff, where he would send a man to take the dog-cart on to the 
Morritt Arms, to be ready for them after their walk. But jMrs. 
Nugent would not go out driving in a dog-cart, nor would she let 
Hermione go without her, and eventually only Linda went with 
Raby and, Mr. Esdaile. Mrs. Nugent wrote lier letters, and Miss 
Esdaile discoursed with the housekeeper; so Hermione was left to 
the resources of the flower-garden and a book, a very old book, and 
as feeble, called “The Young Countess,” on time-toned paper in 
drab boards. 

The library was the weak point at Raby; there w^ere few books 
later than the era of long s’s, and the collection W'as chiefly theo- 
logical or veterinary. 

As lucU would have it, and luck loves to come to those wdio are 
already rich in every blessing, the morning brought among its raiu- 
bow^s Adrian Bright on his long-planned visit to Raby. Hermione 
alone saw him approach, as she stood by the okt wu-ought-iron gate 
of the llow^er-garden, looking out at the shimmering, color-decker! 
})onds hnd the distant landscape. Her flush of rosy smiles wel- 
comed him as he came up the avenue in this delightfully unexpected 
manner, jest as the tale of the “ Young Countess’s” adventures 
hail become insufferably tiresome in their utter improbability, the 
supernumerary great personages too prominent, anr! the catalogue 
of upholstery too long drawn out. 

They walked together in the old-fashioned flower-garden, and 
talked as swmetly and as freely as tlie thyme blew its fragrance 
among the late red roses in the glorious October hours. Time was 
their own. there was no need to hurry; nobody waited for the Ashes 
they were frying; what need of disturbing Miss Esdade’s confer- 
ence with the housekeeper? — bringing cakes and sherry upon them- 
selves all too early in the morning; or breaking in upon Mrs. 
Nugent’s important correspondence? And then therow’as no one else 
to greet, for they w^ere all out sight-seeing, while for themselves they 
were happy; the circuit of the flower-garden was traveling enough 
for them. no’.v sweet is the joy of loving! its perfection must be 
felt, it cannot be put in wmrds. What w’ords can describe a flower? 
Take one of the commonest. Agraphis nutans. Nat. ord., 
Liliaceae. Perianth campanulate six -partite; inflorescence a 


ADKIAX BRIGHT. 


109 

raceme, each flower beins; two bracts nt the base of the pedicel. 
Stamens six; st 3 de filiform, etc. Tins accurately describes —but 
does it give us much idea of — the bluebell? How infinitely weaker 
words must be to image forth love in its fresh spritiiring, this new 
life that is so fair, so rich with undreamed-of blisses, all joys of 
earth and air, all received into an open heart from an invisible source 
of ineffable good, as a flower that opens its new-born eye to the sun- 
beam. The poets may pile words on words, Pelion upon Ossa, in 
trying to define this quintessence of creation, but we must come 
back to the dictionary at last. Love, verb active: to delight in 
another. The dwelling of love is in the seventh heaven. 

“ So Linda is with her lover,” said Adrian, as soon as time 
allowed them to express the sympathy with others w’hich love en- 
genders. ” Well, 1 am glad she is being happy; she is a noble girl.” 

Hermione alwa 3^8 felt a little ah-aid of Linda, who was repellent 
to her; but she already liked George Raby much, and was glad that; 
Linda loved him,. Hitherto she had had no doubt about this love. 

” Shelias fhthomed the excellent nature of this man,” Adrian went 
on. “ It lakes keen eyes to see through that stout, strong crust, 
but, once get at the core, it is solid oak of the best quality. I always 
had a very high opinion of Linda’s judgment; it is more acute than 
mine for at first 1 saw nothing in "this man but his glorious 
physique-, his best qualities were latent until 1 learned tliein from 
those who know him best, Tom Edsaile, and his uncle, Mr. Fairfax.” 

Had Linda indeed recognized the finest qualities of this true- 
hearted lover of hers? And did she care for him as a woman should 
care for the man wdiom she has promised to marry? We and slie 
know otherwise. 

Linda walked on through the storied dale (worshiped by George 
and by Grouse, the noble setter), as if she were alone: she permitted 
the homage of her lover, but she did not respond to his tenderness. 
»She did not even pretend to feel affection for him. She gave him to 
understand, caressing the splendid dog the wdiile she spoke, that 
this must be an affair of growth with her: it might come, and she 
had promiseii to raarr 3 ’^ him because her consent had been as it were 
snatched from her, and she w'ould not lower her.«elf to recede from 
her wmrd; but she must not be nurriad; her heart did not as yet fol- 
low her word, and without loving she would not marry. This was 
reasonable enough, even George Raby admitted. He was content 
to w’ork out this great happiness for himself; he had wmn first, he 
must woo afterward; and he set himself to his delightful task of 
wooing with all the ardor of an Alpine climber. 

On this first morning he did not meet with great success, although 
he did his best to display the sceuer 3 '^ of Linda’s future home to the 
best advantage, while Mr. Esdaile drove on to the Morritt Arms to 
meet them at the outlet of the dale. 

The beauties of Brignali Banks are too many, it is too full of leaf- 
age, rocks, and subject generally for individualizing in a few 
sketches. There are no special points. The place needs weeks and 
weeks of careful study with a quiet mind and a steady, industrious 
hand. And Linda had not a quiet mind; she cou!d‘not throw her- 
self into the occupation of sketching, and yet she hated talking with 
George Raby, tow^ard whom she had the miserable self-convicting 


no 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


feelin/ij of having (old but half the truth, and the half-truth she 
had told was only the greater falsity. She did not love 
him yet, that was true, and he willingly accepted that knowl- 
edge; but that she could never love him was at least equally certain; 
for she still loved another, and never meant to give up the hope' 
that he might one day be hers, 

Linda’s ruling characteristic was her self-esteem. That she 
should be overlooked or held second to any one shocked her; yet 
she could not bring herself to believe that if she made the effort to 
secure tlie first place in anything, in any heart, she should fail. If 
she were not first, it was because she had not cared to try to take 
the first place. Once let her put forth her pow'er, it must be felt. 
It was so with other aims besides her love. She was clever, indeed; 
but on the strengtli of having once exhibited a picture in the Royal 
Academy she assumed the deportment of one for whose succeeding 
efforts the public waits with avidity, on whom attend fame and 
fortune, at her beck like liveried servants. But art for its own sake 
she never loved as Mrs. Bright loved it, nor, with all her lofty ideas 
about her powers, had she one spark of that siicred fire of poetry 
which is the essence of genius, and which glowed in every line and 
touch of Adrian’s handling. She was clever, that was all ; and if 
her work seemed more virile, inore masterly, than that of hundreds 
of girl-students of her age, it was because she used a larger brush, 
a thicker pen, and made bold, dashing strokes therewith, so that 
it needed a skillful critic to perceive that her lines and outlines were 
only theirs enlarged on a scale of a foot to an inch, and strong and 
black in proportion; while of the love of art, her best was gained 
at second- hand from jVlrs. Bright. The philosopher of the Wash- 
bum’ had not been wrong in ranking her with his own proud pupil, 
that handsome Juliet, who expected to be another Turner. 

The clouds gathered darkening round their path tlirougii the nar- 
row dell as Baby led Linda alougthewild and beautiful rock- walled 
chasm below which the Greta dashes itself through its hardworn 
limestone channel, where 

“ Like a steed in frantic fit, 

That flings the froth from curb and bit, 

Tliey viewed her chafe her waves to spray, 

O’er every rock that bars her way.” 

The scene was beautiful, and Linda was an artist, trained and 
taught to admire such displays of the rioting and force of Nature 
contrasted with her rest, and niinaded with the grace and calm 
whereby she repairs such breaches in her strongest barriers, forming 
of her very mending an embroidery. The lofty rocks, torn, “ splin- 
tered, and uneven,” by the relentless force of water’s gravitation 
toward a lower level; tiie resistance of root-fiber, wliich retains the 
greenery in its hold on all the crevices in spite of wind and storm 
and water; and the soft green iv}', and other gar ands, which con- 
quer the rocks into a bovver by sheer influence of their gentleness in 
soft growth and ministering grace— all w’ere mingled in most beau- 
tiful confusion for her deliglit. 

The dog roused the game for her amusement, a strong, loving 
hand aided her on the slippery limestone path, and brought her in 


ADlilAN BRIGHT. 


Ill 


liomage Greta’s “ i-vied banners,” and the ” Ihroatworl, with its 
azure bell,” whicli grows in such beautiful profusion at one point 
•of these banks of Greta; and yet, withal, she was not content. The 
heavy clouds gave to the caverns and precipices the deep, gloomy 
shade so harmonious with the poet’s tragic picture of these scenes; 
and her companion was well versed in all the stanzas of ” Ttokeby ” 
relating to the glen. Indeed, Habj'^’s own feelings on this day were 
wrought to the peculiarly fervid ])itch that gave him pleasure in the 
utterance of the poet’s words, which now flowed from his lips as 
naturall}’^ as common speech at other times; while his knowledge of 
the iiatural history of the North Riding would have been alone 
Buflicient to give interest to even the tamest ramble. 

Dark as it grew with cloud, it was not night enough to deceive 
the owlet into awaking his homily, nor to make ” the raven slumber 
on his crag.” But the bittern screamed, and the grayling and the 
trout rose in the sheltered pools, where the water’s movement was 
only like the echo of an eddy; and the cushat cooed in the copse- 
w’Dod fringing the lofty rocks overhead, until the tercelet came, and, 
Iiovering over, stopped her cooing. Raby pointed out the bird to 
Linda. 

” Then it is the sparrow-hawk that Scott calls the tercelet?” 
asked she, coldly. 

” Not precisely. ]t is the goshawk, the male hawk, called tiercel 
or tiercelet, from being a third less than the female.” 

There wuis a movement among the sedges on the opposite side of 
the stream, the trout and graylipg had disappeared from the still 
oddy pool. 

” Ah, 1 thought so,” said Baby, eagerly, as an otter darted out in 
the dusky stream, and sw^am across it at some little distance from 
where the}’’ stood. ” Now you may see the. tyrant of the stream, 
with what Scott calls his ‘ fic'rce round snout and sharpened 
ears.’ ” 

Tlje animal landed, wet and shiny, on a flat rock, and flopped his 
flattened, fin-like sides as he looked about him, and full at the eyes 
of the human intruflers on his domain; then he slipped off his 
stone, and let himself glide, jelly-like, into the river again. Grouse* 
looked wild for the sport, but’stood still as a sentinel at a sign from his 
master’s hand. 

Raby entered heartily into the delight of all the wild beauties of 
Ihe scenery, proving liimself, to Linda’s unwilling conviction, a 
j>oet in feeling, if mute in stanza, and no burden on a publisher’s 
shelves; but. her temper was not of that sort which lets itself dis- 
cover the latent excellences of another, and she w\alked on abstract- 
edly, until the rain, which had threatened them for some time past, 
began in large, startling drops, and then fell heavily enough to flood 
their whole pathw'ay; and still they had some distance to walk 
through dank and dripping hedge avenues, in a wind that now rose 
wild, and prevented George from holding his umbrella steadily over 
Linda, until he could place her in comparative shelter under a” dod- 
dered oak.” Perhaps both w'ere, in a measure, relieved by this 
misfortune of the weather, as it seemed to give Linda a reason for 
being silent, and for hurrvii g iluaaigh the remainder of the walk 
without a pretense of enjoying it. 




112 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


This too peemed reasonable in Tiaby’s eyes, who was vexed that 
he should so ill have pUij^ed the part of host and lover. He would 
take better precautions in the future. They would get a tly at the 
Morritt Anns, and drive home dry, and Linda, who in her wet 
things might ha^^e stood for a naiad, appeared to George a_ saint or 
an angel, for bearing her discomfort so bravely. AVell, this might, 
after all, be a fine opportunity of showing how tenderly he could 
pay her all kinds of sweet observances. 

13ut Linda would none of his attention. He had brought her into 
an uncomfortable position, and he must hear the consequences. 
She hardly cared to disguise the fact that she was cross. She 
dressed herself in diy clothes, lent by the landlady, and had no 
words of reply for George Raby’s well-meant attempts at cheery 
Torkshire hospitality. 

In the inn yard was Mr. Prothero-Wilson’s drag, with its horses 
all ready harnessed. He had haunted Barnard Castle ever since the 
day that he and our friends had quitted Whitby, in the hope of 
again meeting Linda when she journeyed northward once more. 
Esdaile had met him, and had enlightened him as to George Raby’s 
' plan of walking through Brignall Banks with Linda, with the view, 
as he said, of keeping him out of the way. Tom Esdaile was rathfer 
fond of taking the management of other people’s affairs. Wilson 
■ looked at tlie lowering sky, and saw his opportunity, llis drag 
was at Miss Fraser’s service. Linda smiled upon him. The good 
of the good things of this life was patent to her now in this failure 
' of scenery, and poetry, and— love; and she was half disposed to 
agree with Mr, Piothero-Wilson when he said the angle of the cart- 
shed, with its sedumed tiles, seen|from the coffee-room window, was 
, really better for working into a picture than all the scenic profusion 
b of Brignall Banks. 

' Ah! Brignall Banks were wild and fair, and Gi eta’s woods were 
green, in those times some three weeks ago when she and Adrian 
wandered about Rukeby and Greta bridge together, while Mr. Wil- 
son was manfully fulfilling the cares that weigh upon the host who 
takes a merry party of guests out for an excursion in his drag. He 

i‘ has the credit of doing it, that is all; it is seldom he who gets most 

of the pleasure. 

I But those days seemed infinitely far ofl’ when she and Adrian 
I rambled through the sweet Deepda’le, when Linda’s only rival was 
I a Voice; before Hermione had been seen in more than just a tran- 
I- sient glimpse: when Adrian was heart-whole, and when it had 

K.. seemed an eas}’- thing to shake off this marriage engagement, that 

ft - resembled rather a troubled dream than a reality. The summer 
scenery of those blessed days, when wandciing by the fern-fringed 
Rb'' margin of that 

K “ Least, but loveliest still, 

B|]' Romantic Deepclale’s slender rill,” 

B!' onl}’’ served to render more gloomy the contrast of the dark and 
K' Styx-like glen of Greta, where the storm lowered and raved, and 
n. where only haw^ks and otters, cruel tyrants of nature, held their 
R revel. 

R; George ordered a fly for Linda’s return to Raby, but Mr. Prothero- 
.Wilson again said his drag was entirely at Miss Fraser’s service; and. 


AD JUAN DlUUiJT. 


113 

Linda, whom it revolted that George should seem to claim proprie- 
torship in her, resented his direction of her movemenis, and at once 
accepted the offer of the coach, and seated herself in the interior 
with her t\^o admirers, for Mr. Wilson left to TomEsdaile the duty 
or pleasure of driving the four spirited horses. Linda kept up a 
flow of talk u'Uli j\lr. Wilson about what was going on in London, 
and on topics in which the Yorkshireman could be supposed to have 
no interest. 

The first person Linda saw on entering the Raby gates was Adrian 
Bright, looking more than ever like Apollo, Lord of Light, as he 
stood with face flushed with health and happiness, the breeze lifting 
the curling locks from that brow of genius, and the eyes, lighted up 
with the same aspect of fervor of youthful hope that he bore when 
he had conceived one of his own finest works of sculpture, his easy 
grace, in his well-made tourist’s garments, appearing to great ad- 
vantage in contrast with the stiff angularity of ‘Sir. Prothero-W'’il- 
son. or the massive form of the two colossal Yorkshi remen. 

The sight of Adrian was enough to show Linda how little she 
could ever care for either of the two companions of her excursion. 
Indeed, from being indifferent to her, they both became odious, and 
she could have cried for spite at having so wasted her morning. 
Had he not been her lover, and therefore to be humbled for his pre- 
sumption and scorned for his devotion, for liaby in the abstract she 
might have had a certain admiration, as a superb specimen of 
humanity, possessed of most of the fine qualities with which we 
credit Englishmen; but the aspect of Adrian showed her Prolhero- 
Wilson in his true light as a purse-proud parvenu, heavily^weighted 
with affectation and pretensions of many sorts likely to oflend a per- 
son so high in her self-esteem as Linda Fraser. 

Yorkshire hospitality could not allow Mr. Prothero-Wilson to 
leave Raby Hall in a storm; so there they were, all four toiiether for 
the time, Linda and her two lovers, and the lover who, alas! would 
not be hers. But there were other actresses than Linda to be sup- 
plied with pans. 

Airs. Nugent saw the arrival of the handsome, well-appointed 
coach with much complacency, as she rose at the conclusion of her 
correspandence to look for Ilermione. Mr. Esdaile drew up the 
four beautirul bays just beneath lur window, and they made a feat- 
ure in the landscape, full of interest, and suggestive of possibilities, 
and pleasant relationships with wealth, and delightful suburban 
mansions,, and the whole ranee of enjoyments in Loudon. She 
knew that Proihero-IVilsou was captivated by Linda Fraser, yet 
what might not happen now that Linda was so palpably engaged to 
George Raby! He was a suitor by no means to be despised by any 
girl; and, although the mother was convinced that her beautiful 
Ilermione would in any case make a brilliant marriage, this arrival 
of the rich Londoner was likely to make an agreeable episode in 
what was at best a quiet, if not a sacrificial, visit; and if more 
should come of it, why, then— a woman of her prudence was always 
prepared to weigh accuratel}^ the merits of an}’’ person by his posi- 
tion or his prospects. It was, at least, worth while learning more 
about Mr. Prothero-Wilson than w^ga as yet developed, than he had 
chosen to tell, or they had guessed. 


ADKIA^n bright. 


114 

They had a merry evening in-doors while the tempest raged vvdth 
out, and cracked Jllie fir-boughs and uprooted loft}^ elms. It \vas 
pleasant, by cheerful fires and moderator lamps, to sing old English 
song.s, and hear the legends of the countryside, prompted by Es- 
daile, and well told by Kaby; while Miss Esdaile knitted square 
after square of her everlasting counterpane, and Mrs, Nugent tilled 
in a colored pattern from a fancy shop with wools and silks, which, 
in their heaped-up state in the silk-lined work-basket, were not 
w’ithout their beauty and their fitness to the scene of domestic com- 
fort which was of so antiquated, piquant, and picturesque a sort. 

There was no piano, in the exact sense of the word, its place 
being tilled by an ancient harpsichord-like instrument, the earliest 
of (lie pianoforte tribe, made before the principle could be coaxed 
to work properly; for its normal sound was a mere tinkling, and 
the forte was only produced by vigorous pumping at the long single 
pedal. But being of honest if unenlightened workmanship, and of 
good materials well taken care of, and likewise spared the pain of 
rendering forth the complicated feelings of the fashionable soul, 
which can only be expressed by the strongest, newest, and most 
complex mechanism, it had the advantage of remaining steadily 
in tune, wMth at least four octaves available for acconqraniment to 
ballads, and to interpret the blue old music, that lay in swoetness 
long disused in drawers below the kejdmard. Adrian called the 
instrument the “ daughter of the dulcimer.” Miss Esdaile only 
spoke of it as ” the instrument,” w^hich w'as safe, and did not com- 
mit her to anything. 

Even w^ere 1 lo linger in my story fully to describe that evening 
of mirth and song and rivalry within, and the storm-strength with- 
out, ravaging in defiant jealousy the beauty of the woodland slopes, 
rich in the last smiles of autumn, eager lo replace this charm by the 
stern sublimity of winter grandeur; w^ere I to contrast the reality of 
Brignall’s dark wood glen with its May sw^eetness, sung of by Ilcr- 
mione, as she caroled Scott’s ballads to notes wdiich she and Adrian 
had unearthed that afternoon from the blue-gray folios of aesthetic 
lint, full of melodies sung by lucledon and Yates, it would be im- 
possible to mirror in another’s heart the gladsome sparkle of that 
evening’s amusement and gay wit. The songs must be w'ords alone, 
shorn of the graceful harmonies wrought by playful or by feeling 
fingers, and sweetest, loveliest voice; wiiileforthe wit and laughing 
phrases, who can seize and tame those bright ephemerse of the mind? 
The spirit of the repartee dies with the quick occasion that gave it 
birth. 

Mrs. Nugent w^as glad to gee her daughter’s talents come forth 
from their usual hiding place. Even she knew not how far Her- 
mione’s talent was beyond her education; neither had she any con- 
ception that the talent was not yet full-growm, ay, in scarcel}' more 
Ilian its infancy, while yet the education was called finished! To- 
night ilerinione wuis brilliant. Nature spoke out in her, in ebulli- 
tion of sportive gayety, of innocent, unconscious rivalry, unchecked 
by her mother’s frown. It was the natural fruit of the morning’s 
happiness. Tier light, rippling laugh, her airy talk; 1 will not fade 
its gay colors into black and white, for it might be stigmatized as 
silly, and silly ITermione was not. She was idayful, buoyant, 


ADTIIAN' BRIGHT. 


115 


effervescent naturally, though much kept in check by her mother’s 
rigid decorum, and such light talk must ever lose when transferred 
from its birthplace and linre to a silent room or a reader’s languid 
hour, like puns that will not bear translation. How much more in- 
evitably when shorn of its light beams from Hermione’s bright eyes, 
her sunny smile, and liquid glance, in that blossoming time when 
perfect trust is at once perfectly innocent and perfectly happy. 
Linda assumed a loftier’ tone of contrast, a Homan air, befitting a 
Portia, a Brutus’s or a Cato’s v/ife; unconsciously enhancing tlie 
other’s charm. She had her lovers too, who looked upon llennione 
as an engaging, enchanting child; but on Linda as the type of 
noblest, loftiest wmmanhood, as she hebl herself proudly aloof from 
their advances, retiring within herself with a sad and self-devoting 
air such as Iphigenia might have worn. Adrian should at any rate 
feel she was making of herself a sacrifice, even if it should be for- 
ever forbidden her to say wherefore. To Baby her manner was 
inscrutable. He had never been acted at, and his honest simplicity 
could not read the speech of manner, which she trusted that Adrian, 
with his trained eye for shades of gesture and unspoken feeling, 
would recognize immediately. But Adrian had no eyes except for 
Hermione to-night; together they laughed and sang and sparkled, 

“ Blending their sport, their studj'’, and their skill, 

A union of the soul they prove, 

But must not think that it was love.” 

And Adrian sang, “ Oh, Brignall Banks are fresh and fair,” rs a 
duet with Hermione, heedless of Linda’s lowering looks, and of her 
sudden change to a defiant brilliancy which should vanquish her 
young rival, or deal mischief all round her, Linda would not sing. 
Iler voice, after Hermione’s, must sound harsh, besides not being 
highlj’’ cultivated. Neither, although she was a good pianist, wouhl 
she play; the instrument not being of a sort capable of displaying 
the best points of her musiciansbip — a rapid execution and a certain 
vigor, which she took for dramatic power, in the bass clef. But 
she was a good reader, and her elocution had a fine range of pathetic 
tones, a gift which she had cultivated to the uttermost, anil to which 
she now felt she miglit trust as to a weapon of victory. She in her 
turn, took up the Rokeby book; and read, with infinitely musical 
modulation, that sadly solilary song, ” Sly harp alone,” with a 
pathetic feeling that touched Hermione’s tender soul, maddened 
George Ruby’s heart with love, and fixed Prothero- Wilson’s chains 
forever. 

She saw slie had succeeded. Adrian applauded hers as he would 
any other artistic conception finely carried out. And then, with 
sudden change of tone and manner, she recited the next soug in 
Rokeby, “The Cavalier.” making all their hearts glow with loyal 
fervor as she prayed, ” Heaven shield the brave gallant that fights 
for the Crown.” Another change brought tears to Hermione's eyes, 
as she slowly read ” The Farewell,” beginning, 

‘‘ The sound of Rokeby.’s woods I hear, 

They mingle with tlie song; 

Dark Greta’s voice is in mine eai’— 

I must not hear them long.” 


116 


ADRIAN BRIGHT, 


The Yorkshiremen were flattered and delighted with this, to them, 
novel form of entertainment. Its appropriateness gave it a charm 
it could not have had elsewhere, and thefull-frauirhl feeling.s of each 
one found an echo among her varied tones and words. Onh', what 
could be the meaning of the intent and impassioned glance she fixed 
on Adrian as she slowly, solemnly, recited those two last lines: 

“ But let constancy abide, 

Constancy's the gift of Heaven ”? 

It was a puzzling beam, that portentous gaze No one could ex- 
actly read its meaning, as it did not seem translated by tlie words of 
the song. Linda herself seemed anxious to turn aside the thoughts 
of all the company from this last ambiguous expression, so sj^ie 
laughed a light and semi-scornful laugh, as a ghost-story teller migiit 
do, (lid he read a real awe of specters on the faces of his listeners. 

it passed aside. Linda had achieved her purpose — that of being 
first — so she apparently buried herself in the interest of Mr. Prothero- 
Wilson’s whispered talk, while she asked Hermione to continue the 
remaining Rokeby ballads, or to give them a song. 

Perhaps she expected some of tlie usual weak, young-lady-like 
remarks preluding a performance made insipid by her own highly- 
wrought elocution, or, at any rate, a mere repetition of what had 
gone before, made cloying by its being a monotony of sweetness. 
But she had miscalculated the re, sources that genius, however latent, 
can alw'ays bring to give such expression to art as may best adapt 
itself to the varying mood, or the occasion that calls it forth. 

Hermione threw aside the book, and said she wmuld not give them 
water after wine; dry bread after the three rich courses of Linda’s 
feast. She only brought on a light dessert, wdiich was, in fact, as 
Adrian explained, the sweet, and fruit, and wine, heightened in 
flavor by an olive, that she intended it to represent. In other words, 
a light scherzo after Linda’s pow'erful adagio and full-toned andante. 

, Again the sun shone out genially after the lurid burst of storm, 
and sun rays darted out fitfully from among thick bars of cloud. 
The timid lark and reawakened thrush seemed again to sing their 
glad thanks for nature’s peace, as this sweet, young, happy maiden 
spoke and sang and shared her happiness with all, in talk and riddles 
and gay couplets and essays at song; just trifles, light as air, and 
changing wdth eacli moment’s passage. 

Linda’s arts had only the effect of exciting the angrier passions 
of our many-keyed human nature, Raby shot jealous glances of 
di'finnce at Protliero-AVilson, who stroked his beard wdth an air of 
fatuous superiorit}’-, as he succeeded in diverting Linda’s attention 
entirely from her recognized lover. But, inly, Ijinda knew that she 
had failed: that her arts were fruitless. Adrian was Hermione’s 
alone, and only mime deeply fascinated than ever, and more resolved 
to win. His life would be nothing unless it held Hermione. 

The Esdailes, brother and sister, were both captivated with this 
sweet young girl, and in the same kind of w^ay: her sort was such 
an utter novelty to them, as might be a humming-bird to a Terra del. 
Fupgian. Her songs, that thrilling voice sent up in sport, and pretty 
mockery of all the sweet, but antiquated, cadences in the aged 
music, which her rare flexibility of throat had power to execute, 


ADllIAi^- BTIIGHT. 


117 

The trills and twirls and hoverings and changes of mind on the 
penultimate syllables in “ The Thorn;” the quaverings from “ In- 
kle anil Yarico ” and other by-gone operas; her sweelness in 
Bishojj’s and Arne’s melodious phrases; and bits of liuononcini, 
little known, but found strangely beautiful and in tune by her who 
had a soul for real music. And as sweet as her music was the charm 
of her talk, all clear and bubblinsr as a mountain rivulet, yet none 
too loud nor importunate; her droll remarks over the caricatures 
that Adrian rapidlj hit oS‘; her unaffected admiration of Linda’s 
drawings as her Yorkshire sketch-book w^as timed over; while she 
supplemented them by her tales and enthusiastic recollections of the 
places she could recognize as forming part of her own experience. 
All this was most winning. The gale raged outside as they sang 
and lived it down within; and night came all too soon, and Her- 
mione’s light song was at length lost in the howling, raving of the 
wind as they passed through the long transverse corridors to their 
respective rooms; and tall, hard, strong, honest Miss Esdaile kissed 
the fair young girl with fond, admiring affection as Hermione won- 
(leringly, and in half-awe-struck playfulness, carried up the bag of 
half-completed counterpane which was too precious to leave to the 
chances of fate below stairs. 

ISlo wonder they had all enjoyed their evening, as tve all might 
enjoy leisifre did we exert ourselves to be gay, and take interest in 
the real life that always must be going on around us. We have not 
yet learned to cultivate happiness as we cultivate flowers-— on certain 
definite principles, wdth a safely calculable result. It is with us too 
often as it is in Cornwall, where the ground is used for mining, and 
not for crops of fruit and flowers. 

It is too often thus: if hearts are blighted, if happiness be thrown 
away, we cannot lielp it; these things must take their chance; we are 
placed in this world to make a full purse and to keep it, So the 
world says. 

But these people had been hard to please, had they not been in- 
terested in the sweet, natural acting that had been placed before 
them. And they had been pleased, all of them save one, the taller 
actress, sharer of the glory. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

“ Cui-sed be the social wants tliat sin against the strength of youth! 

Cursed be the social lies that warp us from the living truth I” 

Locksley Hall. 

But with to morrow what a wreck outside— and in! 

The house stood, strong, blue, and bare, stripped of its dazzling 
array of gold and crimson leaves; and the terrace, lawn, and fish- 
ponds were spread with a great, rich carpet of color such as no 
Eastern loom could devise. 

In the wild, stormy night many trees were uprooted and much 
damage done. To Linda, the prospect of living m such an inclem- 
ent region became more than ever gloomy and impossible. IMrs. 
Nugent, when alone with her daughter and the visitors from Lon- 
don, contrasted the Hall and its wild surroundings with the comforts 


ADllIA^^ BRIGHT. 


118 

of a town, and Mr. Protlicro- Wilson dilated on the civilization of 
Roehampton. A slight fall of snow whitened the summits of the 
far-off fields; the garileii paths were plowed up by watercourses, 
and the flowering plants in all unsheltered places lay prostrate and 
cowering before the further fury of the elements. Worst of all, ta 
the visitors, the post had not arrived, and there were no newspapers, 
so there remained nothing for them but that unfailing resource of the 
weather-bound in a strange house— grumbling. Mr. Prothero- 
Wilson, indeed, was compelled to defy the gale and drive to Bar- 
nard Castle in quest of his letters. So his four-in-hand was brought 
round and he departed. 

]V[rs. Nugent looked after the coach and its fine, spirited horses 
admiringl}’’, as a ty]>eof wealth being able to vanquish all obstacles, 
more and more she felt convinced of the efficacy of gold to buy the 
happiness which is best defined as— the having one's own way. 
Alchemy, the transmutation of one’s opportunities into gold, there- 
fore, must be the one desirable art, the one necessary study. The 
bulk of the world agrees with her, and reckons as waste of time 
every branch of learning not distinctly alchemical. For this we 
clothe our daughters with attractions as a sort of birdlime to catch 
golden pigeons; for this we causQ our boys to throw their strength, 
their brains, and their early aspirations into the crucible. It is only 
a minority among us who as yet feel the misery, the starvation, of 
this Mida.s-like condition, now that everything we touch is jaun- 
diced with gold, or, oftenest, its imitation. These feel that gold is 
not worth the toil it causes to seek it, find it, d”’g it, wash it, smelt 
it, and bring it to the market. Even to those who are successful, it is 
a life spent in hard labor, cruel, often, as the Siberian mines. What 
of those who fail to find it at aH? A life wasted in useless search. 
While we are seeking gold, we might make the thing that gold 
buys, enjoy the making, enjoy the using. 

The majority wear the asses’ ears of Midas. Mrs. Nugent is of 
the majority, but then she wears an elegant cap, and ISIrs Nugent 
means to be diligent in her practice of alchem}’’, and, in looking 
about her for what she can throw into the melting-pot, sees ready 
to her hand Hermione’s roses, Adrian’s heart. In they go. So that 
business is settled.* 

“ Lookers-on sec most of the game,” quoth Ursa IMajoi, other- 
wise Tom Esdaile, as tlie coach drove off. ” Miss Fraser is trifling 
with that Bothering-Wilson, and he is trying to lure her from her 
eugajrement. George’s happiness is in danger.” Esdaile fell into 
a condition of deep unrest. That business was unsettled. Inde- 
pendently of the lawyers, what a world of worry there is in mar- 
riage settlements. Tom Esdaile had read no romances, and did not 
see the way out of this love business at all. It never occurred to 
him to stand still and let it settle itself. No, ho was not an idle 
man. lie must work it out, must settle it at once, clearing his way 
as he went. A fig for the world stigmatizing his interference as 
meddlesome, [lad he not meddled befi re, and meddleil succcss- 
fidly, on that day when he hindered Idrs. Bright from finishimr her 
sketch of the fair at Barnard Castle. (He always thought his errand 
to Mrs. Briglit liad been the cause of Linda’s acceptance of George 
Jiahy.) Was his work to be spoiled by a Piethero- Wilson, a Both- 


AIJUIAX liUlGJir. 119 

ering-AYilsou? Was lie to stand aside quietly and see George robbed 
of bis possessions? Was that the part of a friend? lie auswered 
every one of these questions to bis liking. It is so easy to argue for 
one’s own inclinations. 

No,” be said, summing up the objections and smashing them. 

Statesmen bold larger views, and call meddling intervention.” 
He would intervene. Tom Esdaile was an active man. He tight- 
ened on bis bat, took bis stick — Hermione called it a tree — and 
walked in the teeth of the gale to Barnard Castle, and made straight 
for the King’s Head; v bicb, of course, being the best, was Mr. 
Protbero-Wilson’s inn, as it bad been Mrs. Bright’s. 

He marched into Protbero-Wilson’s sitting-room, looking very 
tall, and all the more like an Ursa IMaior for Wilson’s aiipearauce 
of cowering down as be sat by the table, looking as if be were 
frightened. He pulled off bis gloves deliberately, finger b}" finger, 
laid them down hy bis but, and then said, 

” My mission is one of peace.” 

It sounded like a declaration of war. ProlBero- Wilson actually 
shuddered. He would have no chance with this big man, who 
might be as unreasonable as be was big. 

” My mission is one of peace.” Wilson did not know what it ^ 
would be wisest to say or leave unsaid. . ' 

“ Will you take a glass of wine?” said Protbero-AYilsou, after an 
interval, during which the tw^o men bad eyed each other from 
above and belowx He reached bis band tow'ard a decanter. He 
felt guilty, be could not tell why. 

” Yes, I will take the same wine as ^mu do,” Esclaile spoke 
sternly, but, really not having made up bis mind wdiat to say. be 
tbouglit they might both be able to bring out their meaning over a 
glass of wdne; as ladies can talk better wdien tbe}^ have a tea-cup<iu 
their band to fidget with. 

” Did be think I wuis going to poison him then?” inw'ardly com- 
mented Prolbcro-Wilsou. 

Somehow Esdaile began to wish be bad not come. Intervention, 
seen near, bad b}’' no means the grand, four-6\dlabled sound it car- 
ried two hours ago Avben be was arguing about it at Rab 3 X and 
distance lent to meddling its enchantment. He bad looked unutter: 
able things imposingly, and begun w^ell; but still the things re- ’ 
mained unutterable. Protbero- Wilson might well ask if George 
liaby was a person who required bis business managed for him, or a 
young lady w^bo needed her big brother to ask every man bis inten- 
tions. 

Relief came unexpectedly to both. A clatter of hoofs was beard 
under the window; they both looked out, and there was George 
Raby, who bad evideuth' ridden fast and far, calling upon Esdaile 
to come down. 

Protbero-Wilson was glad to see them both go off in earnest talk, 
without further reference to himself. The rich Londoner would 
take himself off immediately, while the chance was open to him. 

” l\li8S Fraser must be going to Ijondon soon,” he said to him- 
self. ” 1 shall have opporl unites of seeing her there. 1 am sick 
of Yorkshire.” 

He took his own ticket homevrard by the first quick train. 


120 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


What brought the master of Raby so far away from his guests? 
We must return to Raby to explain. 

By the 21st of October we have generally learned to expect bad 
weather; most likely by that time we have“grown hardened to it, or 
can settle down to occupations quite independent of it. And this 
2l8t of October was so wet and wild a day that no one cared to stir 
out save the restless Linda, who went out unseen to battle with the 
gale alone. Adrian wuis entirely occupied with Hermione, singing 
with her, sorting her colored w^ools, sketching her graceful figure- 
now as Hebe, now as Thalia, now as an idea of playfulness, as she 
amused herself wdth the frolics of George’s terrier puppy; and in 
the face of this fact what did it matter to Linda, if she caught her 
death with w^et and cold, or if she should entirely lose herself 
among those bleak and snow-capped moorland fells. Her misery 
overcame her sensitiveness to discomfort What was life v/orth to 
her? The actual rain had ceased, only the wind fought her back- 
w’ard as she juounted the hill slope until she came to the gate 
which led out upon the open moorland. Here, holding on by the 
gale, which sheltered her in a measure from the blast, she gazed on 
that extended view which, she had been told at second-hand by 
Mrs, Bright, comprised the whole of English history; a scene to 
m»ke one moralize over the shortness and the little value to creation 
of one’s owm span of life. Here W'as the pathwa}^ of vikings; there 
the Korman castle crests the Roman platform ; yonder are the battle- 
fields where modern freedom of thought rose against the tradition 
of ages; and the evidence of geological ages further back reduces 
those representatives of the vast forces of organization, chivalry, 
and liberty into proportions that, in comparison with these, make 
the duration of Roman and Norman domination seem short as even 
one human life, and crushes ourselves into the insignificance of the 
grain of dust from which we originally sprang, and to which we 
may so soon return. 

What now of all .your toils are known? 

A grassj^ trench, a broken stone.” 

Then what are we, and what docs'jt matter what we are, what we 
love, and whom we live for? If “ we are positively or relatively 
happy or , wretched, if a grain of dust is quiescent or whirled into 
space, what can it matter to the universe, or even to one field? 
Why then vex ourselves uselessly, when we must in any case fol- 
low the drift of circumstances? 

Linda’s musings were of this weary type after a night torn by 
mental storm, as Raby Hall was dismantled and its twining plants 
ruined by the external gale. She would not go from her promise. 
Worlds should not move her from her word, provided Adrian could 
know, without her telling, that it was for him she sacrificed herself, 
that in his future glory he might value the life that she had bought. 
She closed her eyes, and again she saw Adrian strusgling in the 
torrent, his bright head dashed against the rocks; again his rescue 
hy George Raby, was acted before her, George Raby, made strong 
a hundred fold by the swift, new joy of her promise. No, shewouhl 
never break it, could Adrian know tlie price. That would be noble 
in his eyes. But if he never knew it, if he only thought of her as 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


121 


one who had made a comfortable inarriat^je, where would be the 
grandeur of the sacrifice? She would have lost love, she would 
have lost all, for nothing. AVhere would then be her story? Un- 
recognized heroism was not her line of ait. 

Were it quite certain she could never hope to compass Adrian’s 
love — that is, were he married to Hermioue — she would give up love 
forever, and fall back upon the next best thing, ambition — ambi- 
tion, to which money was the first stepping-stone. She must 
achieve either love or — money. George Raby represents neither; 
and she has no care for merely sterling worth ungilded. Ay, but 
is it certain that Adrian will win llerniione? She has herself helped 
Mrs. Nugent to many opposing thoughts upon this subject. These 
might fructify; nay, they would do so, in such a ready soil as Mrs. 
JNugent’s heart. She* trusts to time and her determined will smooth- 
ing the channel for. her passions, as the ever-wearing, ever-raging 
Tees smooths the hard limestone. But she must come out of this 
creditably. Ay, there’s the rub. Is she to act so as to make George 
Raby give her up? No, that would be ignominious for her. That 
is not the solution she requires. And to hint to Adrian her love for 
him — she knew him well enough for that- -would be to lose her hope 
forever. 

1 do not mean to say she put these thoughts into words, but they 
passed through her all the same as if she spoke them, each one leav- 
ing its tiny seed to grow% or its sting to fester; and shfulrifted round 
and round her argument, each current of thought leaving lier 
more and more uucerhiin as to her action. No wonder she felt 
nothing of the gale outside, when she was. so tempest-tossed within, 

A bark of joy showed that Grouse, the setter, liad found her. He 
looked at her with honest, trusting, loving eyes, like George bimself. 
She could not bear it. Upward she w'ent, and out on the wide, 
wild moorland, crushing the heather with her feet, and raising the 
winged game in whirling coveys as she passed. The thin crust of 
snow still lay on the loftier fells, but on this comparatively low- 
lying moorland all was moist and green, save the heather-bells 
crisply brown, with lilac tufts still blooming liere and tin re. Sue 
came to a dell, beautiful in its wildness. A group of cataracts, all 
colored like the cairngorm, dashed as if at play among pillars and 
pyramidal masses of gray rock, sparkling and gleaming in.innumer- 
able tiny rills, as if joyful in the sl?y now bursting with light in its 
rifted openings among the clouds. A young beech-tree held its place 
against the gale, glowing like topaz upon the purple moorland rising 
behind it. All was confusion, whirl, and beauty in this most living 
scene. But it w^as animation, not turmoil; play, not aimless rage, 
that po8ses.sed this group of gushintr fountains, this family of blithe 
young rivers, as they sang and laughed before her. 

But their song was not in tune with Linda. It made her jealous. 
Why might not she too be happy? She gazed so long and so in- 
tently over the edge of the precipice that a giddiness seized her, and 
she retired in terror. The instinct to preserve even the most va retched 
life is so all-mastering, and she had so nearly gone, that her hali- 
lictitious W'ocs had given place to a real throbbing, the breathless- 
ness of fear. But self-indulgent thought, long pursued, often forces 
itself upon us later, to our destruction; and soon Linda Fraser’s 


122 


ADIUA^^ J3!UGiH\ 

morbid imnginaiion led her to dwell again upon the cui bom feeling 
of her self commune by the gate below, when she was making of 
her life a drama to herself, rather than really forming a resolution 
of what she meant to do. What mattered it whether she were a 
trifle older or younger when she died? Better younger, since she 
might escape some years of misery; and, could she die while still 
beautiful, she would be admired as well as pitied. The ever down- 
ward whirl of the cascade forced her eye to follow and to follow iL 
Her musing murmured ever in the same sad tune; the glancing 
waters seemed to woo her. Adrian, at any rate, would pity her 
and feel for her, as he had been So near to such a death himself.. 
Dead, he might even love her, could he see her there ingulfed in 
that tempestuous loveliness of terror, as Shelley hath it: 

“ A woman’s countenance, with serpent locks, 

Gazing in death on heaven from those wet rocks.” 

Her mind was really beginning, self-encouraged, to be 

“ by anguisli forced astray 
To burst through God’s and Nature’s laws.” 

Was this still only the drama of her thoughts? 

The dog caught her cloak, and looked up beseechingly in her 
face, then gave a sharp, jojmus bark. George Kaby was by her 
side. He caught her round the waist, and said, in a low, stern 
voice, stern from the very fear it held within it, “ You are in dan- 
ger there;" and his strong arm lifted her with ease from the crag 
where she had stood. 

For some time neither spoke, hut they read each other’s faces; 
and the time was dreadful. George, guided by the Gordon setter,. 
Grouse’s companion, had mounted to the Trowscars — that is the 
name of this beautiful rocky dell of bubbling water— in hopes of 
finding Linda, and showing her the whole fine domain of whicli she 
would one day be mistress. He was glad to see she had such en- 
joyment ill the beautiful scenery of his moorland home as to brave 
the wild wind and weather in search of fine points of view. 

He recalled his first meeting with her at Brimham Rocks, as 
wild and desolate a place as this, and as beautiful, and how she had 
enjoyed it, or seemed to do so; and Ingleborough, which slie had 
drawn in her sketch-book like a couching lion, ^fuch of Ids uncle’s 
— the philosopher of the Washburn — love of Nature dwelt in him, 
only ntterl}’- uncultivated, as with the men of former days, so that 
he understood it not when translated into art; but he was fully able 
to glory in his lordship of the soil, and its beautiful uufoldiugs for 
its master. Now, in a moment, what a change! 

“ Why are .you so unhapoy, Linda?’’ he spoke in a tone of infinite 
pity and repraach. No word from Linda. His voice was full- 
charged to bursting. “ Linda, you are free. I wish never again to 
see such suffering on a human fi ce as 1 saw on the face of her I 
loved. Have I read you wrong?’’ Still not a word; though he waited 
long, and the faithful dog was equally at ga/e upon her. " Go 
liome, that is the safest patli. Farewell.’’ 

He turned and stood on the high ground u lienee he had just lifted 
her, that he might watch her descent over the slippery, rocky 
ground. She paused in doubt a moment, and looked up. 


ADIUAN BJilGHT. 


123 


“You will not llirow yourself off the cliff?” 

She spoke in anxious terror, lie laughed in painfully bitter 
scorn. 

“ Kot 1. A man is stronger than that. He does not willingly 
make himself a fool, though he may he made a fool of.” 

She was completely cowed. Slie returned to the house as com- 
manded. Raby watched her till she was in safety, then took a 
rougher, shorter path, saddled his chestnut mare, and rode like the 
wind to Barnard Castle. 

If the mare had broken his neck he would not have minded, as 
an Irishman might' say, but he was not going to drown or hang him- 
self. As it was, he seemed for the moment dead— dead of a broken 
heart — and all his movements were merely muscular, as a serpent’s 
that has been latel}’’ killed. If he revived, it would be in an entirely 
new spiritual condition. He would never be the same genial, spirited, 
young-hearted George Raby again; all that was killed in him, or if 
not killed, then aged by thirty years, for his age had been doubled 
in that moment. These things always age a man or change his nat- 
ure entirely. He met Esdaile and made a few abrupt confidences 
to him, as much as he could do without betraying Linda’s weak- 
ness, The anger of both men turned on Prothero- Wilson, and 
Esdaile w^as for taking him George’s challenge, which Raby at first 
was only too eager to deliver, that he might vent his fierce disap- 
pointment on somebody; but he looked at himself and his friend, 
and felt it impossible for a giant like one of them to thrash a piti- 
ful cockney who knew no more of boxing than a lady, and George 
never dreamed of fighting other than with fists, or clubs, or hockey- 
sticks, as Raby was too good a shot to deem it other than base to 
wish to fire his double-barrel at a rival. He wmuld neither murder 
himself nor another. 

“ Ko, damn it,” he said, driving away his thirst for vengeance. 
■“ A man of my size can’t fight a thread-paper.” 

And Esdaile felt that this was true. 


CHAPTER XX. 

“ O then, though Spenser’s self had strayed 
Beside him through the lovely glade, 

Lending his rich, luxuriant glow 
Of fancy, all its charms to show, 

Pointing the stream rejoicing free, 

As captive set at liberty. 

Flashing her sparkling waves abroad; 

And clamoring joyful on her road.” 

Rokeby, 

Luncheon time and sunshine came together, and INIiss Esdaile 
W’oiild not let the visitors wait for George Raby and her brother, 
supposing them to have been delayed by damages that the gale 
might have wrought among the limber. 

In the afternoon she volunteered to show Mrs. Nugent and the 
young hulies the mill-falls of the Greta, and other lucturesque ob- 
jects immediately round the house. Linda refused to go witli them. 
{She was worn out bythevaiied and exciting, yet miserable, passions 
of the morning, and she was expecting at every moment to have 


A Dill AN BUIGIIT. 


124 

lier behavior to George Raby disclosed to Mrs. Nugent and her 
cousin; and, worst of all, to Adrian, who would inevitably, she 
thought, condemn her. She still held herself loftily, proudly, as 
she always did, arrogating superiority in all respects to Ilermione; 
and to find herself in the^posilion of being cast olf by Raby would 
be most humiliating when known, and Adrian, she too clearly saw, 
must be lost to her forever. 

She was wuetched, feeling treacherous, and, what was worse, un- 
successful, and that in future she would have to veil her crest before 
these people in wiiose eyes she most wished to appear grand and 
noble, or at least prosperous. Ilml it been kind Tante, she might 
have told her the truth, and been healed. 

Mrs. Nugent would have liked to keep Adrian at a distance while 
she lield Ilermione close by her side; but Adrian went with them, 
and made himself so pleasant to all the three ladies that the host and 
the brother w'ere forgotten, and Mrs. Nugent ceased for the time to 
wonder what caused the vexatious delay in Mr. Prothero-'W ilson’s 
return. 

Adrian had stayed at Raby before, and had already made himself 
master of the facts and history of the place; subjects which he could 
always himself put into poetry or a pleasant tale. None knew bet- 
ter than he how to weave 

“ His tale 

So well with praise of wood and dale ; 

And knew so Avell which point to trace, 

Giving living interest to the chase, 

And knew so well o’er all to throw 
His wild spirit’s romantic glow.” 

Even Mrs. Nugent could not help enjoying herself, and agreeing- 
when Idiss Esdaile said that he had the pleasantest manners of any 
young man she knew. But what was pleasantness compared with 
the clank of Prothero-Wilson’s sold, the sight of his team of splen- 
did horses, and the knowledge of his fine house at Roehampton, and 
other consolidated funds of happiness? 

Tliey walked in the sheltered slope of the hill to the mill-falls, 
w-here the Greta “ flashed her sparkling waves abroad,” in the 
sunshine of the meadowy dell, while Miss Esdaile went to do a 
commission at the mill. The air was still and summer-like down 
here, though the still-whitened fell summits showed how keen the 
breezes were up high on the exposed moorlands. Here it was joy- 
ous to see the summer sun playing on this 

“ Stream rejoicing free, 

■As captive set at liberty,” 

and not to feel the iron hand of the early frosts that stilled the 
hubbies dancing up there in the thin blue ether. 

Adrian addressed his efforts with all the force of his will, and with 
the arguments best suited to her capacity, to soften Mrs. Nugent’s 
heart in his favor, before he actually put the momentous question 
which was to bring ice or summer as its reply. 

‘‘ They encourage sculptors at the Royal Academy,” he said, in 
indirect reply to some of JMrs. ISugent’s commonplace remarks on 
art and artisVs generally. ‘‘ I stand the best chance of any fellow 


ADllIAK UlilGHT. 


125 


for ttie associatesliip, nnd from tOai is bill or *^eing a full 

acadeniiciau. Thtm cue’s fortune is secure, ai aeof au R. A. 

is received everywhere, and dines with royai , 

All is fair in love and war, Adrian used the a 
ments likeliest to tell in his favor. 

lie saw she wavered. Another good blow to tm rock 

and then he would place the momentous question. A’A Han- 
nibal, he should have split his rocks with vinegar, and'^P^ 
flung his chisel about so wildly. He wavS too eager, his heak"^^® 
too deeply engaged in the fray, while she was cool and lieartl?!- 
She saw her power and undervglued him. He felt hurried, and 
plunged madly, blindly, on to the fortress he assailed, heedless of 
the trenches. Might llermione be hi&? Miss Esdaile was approach- 
ing, Hermioue had gone on to meet her. It was now or— to wait 
for another opportunity. 

Mrs. Nugent is «ool and calm enough for the inward vision that 
conjures up carriages and horses, fine clothes and troops of servants. 
A fortune in the English funds is worth two in the Carrara mount- 
ains. Prothero-'Wilsou has a large fortune in the English funds. 
She knows he admires Linda most, but she thinks it is impossible 
that Linda can care for him, she, being engaged, though some slight 
circumstances have caused her latterly to doubt— circumstances light 
as a straw which shows the swim of the stream. Anyhow, there is 
a fortune, with the slight incident of a man attaclied to it, to be 
picked up, a fortune of a size she would not undtrvalue even for 
Hermione; but if Linda cares to secure it she may— she will not 
counsel her to let a rash engagement stand in the way.. She will be 
good aunt enough to Linda for that sacrifice, as she calls it to her- 
self. feeling proud of her goodness of heart. But she will not 
countenance her own daughter’s engaging herself to a less-assured 
fortune while this one at the feet of the family is still open to their 
having. 

In thinking all this over, ]\lrs. Nugent loses sight of Adrian’s 
eager face, the best of his earnest, loving words are unheard, and 
the others are upon them; the opportunity is lost. But at least she 
has not refused him; his eyes fix themselves on his love with a 
fond, hopeful look that makes her blush, and they have one more 
short lovers’ talk together in the narrow avenue lane leading out 
upon the moors: and all the wdiile Mrs. Nugent is thinking what 
an infinitely better match that man must be whose father has made 
a fortune, than Adrian, or any other who has a fortune yet to make 
for himself, howmver capable he may be of making it. 

Adrian is velvet, Hermione satin. United, they would form a 
beautiful satin-lined drapery, on which circumstances should em- 
broider a fine life’s pattern. Prothero- Wilson is only a canvas bag 
— but that bag holds sovereigns. At best, he is but cloth of frieze 
just lining the cloth of gold. Adrian and Hermione were happy 
for a few short minutes longer, then Miss Esdaile left them at the 
wide avenue gate, followed, at her mother’s command, by Her- 
mione. 

Adrian at once put his fate to the touch, to win or lose it all. He 
played — and lost. Hermione Nugent miglit not marry an artist. 

His heart was chilled to marble cold as those whitened distant 


126 \ ADllIAi^ BHICtHT. 

fells. He ncAt the aveuue gale. The leaves fell round 

him where lieV the shadow of the overarching trees. At 

the end of the 'd liermioue in a bright space; she turned 

and looked at hiui^-^d seemed to smile. Mrs. Nugent came up to 
her, and together '^hey entered the house. Hermione turned cnce 
more, and seemred to give one lingering farewell gaze out toward the 
gate, and th'^-m turned droopingl^-- awa 3 \ 

George., ilaby rode up. Adrian said he was leaving Raby. The 
two mien shook hands, their eyes met, they understood each other. 

“ Neither will young Bright go to Carrara an,d pitch himself off 
the crags there, ’’ thought George, as he rode slowly and sadly up 
his line avenue, and then went in-doors and played host to the four 
ladies, without saying a word of what had happened in the morn- 
ing. But Linda heard from Mrs. Nugent why Adrian did not reap- 
pear, and thus far she was pleased. The first act of her play had 
passed not altogether to her dissatisfaction. She might yet have 
faith in her star. F*till, she was in some sense a murderess. She 
had killed thirty years of the bloom and brightness of George 
Baby’s life. He would henceforth be thirty years older and thirty 
years sadder. 

And so they left Adrian, and Adrian left them. He was melan- 
choh^, of course, and at times savage. He had never failed in any- 
thing before; his chisel had always hewn down obstacles; and now 
not onlj’- himself but his art was scorned, and scorned bj'- those who 
knew nothing of either art or nature. 

“ What do such people want? They admire the bearings painted 
on their carriages better than the work of Titian. I would have 
painted her carriage panels for her, and changed the arms as often 
us the fashion changed. I would have made a work of art of it, 
und painted the arms in the naturalistic style, or any style tliat she 
liked.” Adrian’s voice had never had such a ring of irony in it be- 
fore. “But no; it would have had no value in her eyes. Why? 
Because it would have been done by one belonging to herself. It 
should have been the job-work of an ignorant hireling. There lies 
the secret. One must not work for one’s self; to do a thing your- 
self makes it ignoble. In the eyes of such people, the highest, 
noblest work is degrading. Achilles harnessing his horses to his 
chariot would have appeared to them but a coachman. To her, a 
sculptor is at best a stone-mason engaged in fancy work. Ah, well- 
:i-day! 1 suppose Praxiteles was a bad match. I will go and see in}’’ 
f riendlj' phdosopher. ’ ’ 

He tried hard to bo bitter and cynical, and give back scorn for 
scorn; but as he strode on, the miUler thought of his. Hermione, 
standing at the distant door, a very statue of farewell, melted him 
into tenderness for her sweet sake. The remembrance of that lin- 
gering look backward softened his heard it also made it sad with 
an infinite 3 'earning, and a feeling of helplessness akin to what he 
had experienced in the dark, danli loneliness of Snaresbrook Castle. 
He saw no way out of this darkness, do what he would, be as great 
as he had it in his power to be. He must be great as a sculptor, and 
Mrs. Nugent would not have caied for Phidias himself, nor accept- 
ed such a ane as a suitor for Hermione. Should he go and get him- 
self a scarlet coat, and bring home laurel wreaths and swords of 


ADillAJS BEIGnT, 


honor and a title of lA.C.B.? Yes, and by the time his laurel had 
crown, liermione would belonr^ to some rich man, some Prothero- 
Wilson who had TK)U!>ht her, as a rich man buys a precious stone. 
Better put on the scarlet coat and coand get killed by the first set of 
savages England finds ready to fig lit her. 

Well, he would go and see his philosopher, and see if he could 
there lug at his heart-strings, and root out his passion. Why did 
the soft, showery sky remind him so perpetually of Hermione’s 
blue eyes, as he had sometimes seen them bedewed with feeling, as 
perhaps they might be now? Why did such things force them- 
selves into his mind, when he wanted to drive them away? He 
tried to whistle: 

“ If she be not fair for me. 

What care I how fair she be?” 

“ Oh, Hermoine, oh, my darling, T cannot give you up. 1 can- 
not forget you a long, long pause— “ and more, I will not for- 
get you, nor give you up. I swear it, for ever and ever.” 

He took the train at Bowes for Otiey, and walked once more by 
the light of the late afternoon up the soft valley of the Washburn, set 
in golden woods. 

Lights were moving about in the upper rooms of his friend’s 
house, and Adrian found the philosopher busily setting his house in 
order. ‘‘ Setting things to rights,” as he explained to Adrian, who 
thought it looked more like upsetting things to rigiits; since the 
collections of many years and many theories were being poured out 
in more than one vast treasure heap in tlie middle of every up stairs 
room, and every chair and table was loaded witli articles, each one 
symbolizing or memorializing some lofty thought which had top- 
pled over in tlie building, or else rare books or pictures of inestima- 
ble value. The philosopher was a man who professed to live upon 
no income, or on no more than the wages of a skilled meclianic, 
which lie said he was; and said he \luly earned such wages, and 
claimed them from the world. Wherefore, he reserved them out of 
his own fine fortune, the rest he gave to the world— by spending it 
for the public weal. For this good purpose he needed a few thou- 
sands to dip into occasionally. But, between whiles, he kept an 
account-book, to show that he and his housekeeper had lived upon 
the thirty shillings a week which he allowed himself as a skilled 
laborer, and he called upon all the rest of the world to show and do 
as much. 

His theory of wealth, in the sense of well-being, was poverty, and 
work was Ids liappiness; but it did not seem to occur to him that 
he w.as so helpless that he could not even feed without an attendant 
to wash up and put things in order after him— that only after he 
had had his meals laid, and cooked to perfection, when lie had 
broken his eggs all over his plate, and rubbed the bread-crumbs off. 
the ham on to Ids coat-sleeve, could his theory of poverty begin to 
work. In fact, the wages he paid, his house-rent, and a few extras, 
were never reckoned in the thirty shillings a week at all. Truly, 
the house and land were his freehold, so that his firewood, his tur- 
nips, and a variety of the good thinga cf life scarcely seemed to 


ADKIAN BRIGHT. 


come out of liis pockets an} more than do llie.gentle-sbowers from 
heaven; therefore, of course, they rarely figured in the accounts. 

Mr Fairfax was earning his wages now, to be sure, as hardly as 
ever man did earn thirty shillings a week. Adrian at first thought 
he was changing houses, but he soon perceived that the process was 
only what his little cousin Bimbo, Mrs. Bright’s youngest baby but 
one, called “making a vummage.’’ Indeed, it seemed as if his 
housekeeping had come to a crisTs, and no more could be done, no 
further upheaval carried on, for lack of space for minute subdivi- 
sion of the classified treasures. This system of classification at 
prfsent stood broadly thus: buff room full, ivory room full, rose 
room full, library full, own room full, guests’ room full, public 
room full; subdivided in this way: divan-pile in buff room, long 
bench and all the chairs piled in ivory room, central and divisional 
heaps on fioor in rose room, all the library tables heaped, guests’- 
room bed piled to the ceiling, etc., etc. 

As toy his housekeeper, words cannot describe her state of irrita- 
ble endurance, when she saw her master thus possessed with the 
demon of reorganization. He was in tin habit of giving wa}' to this 
occasional!}', when a disturbing fit seized him. The housekeeper 
evidently thought it a form of hysteria, as she called these convul- 
sions of their, system “ master’s asterisk fits.” 

They generally sprang from a very small cause. Sometimes it 
w'as a picture requiring t’o be re-hung, or cleaned, or re-mounted, 
which generally caused a dislocation of the pictures in its vicinity, 
and subsequently throughout the house. And this is alwftys the 
case with pictures everywhere; move one, and you will find there 
necessarily follow^s a general rearrangement. Move one piece of 
furniture, and the wiiole scene will at once want shifting. But it 
is not with all of us a game of “ geiferal post,” as it wms with Mr. 
Fairfax, that every article of a large, miscellaneous collection is 
flourished about for change of air all over the house. Once the 
cause of the migration of the chattels w'as simply a fly calmly re- 
clining in death upon a window-sill. “ Must we ever be doomed to 
find carrion in our houses?” 

The emphatic answer “ No ” (by himself) was follow'ed by the 
tempest ot sanitary energy and raising of the cTust by the house- 
keeper and her myrmidons or “ don.” He talked big to the poor 
■wmman about a host of piilicarious dragons, insatiable as unclean, 
who fed upon you. The poor soul did not krfow' he alluded to 
fleas, and better not, or there is no saying wiiat length and strength 
of words might have been produced. He told her, and incidentally 
every one who crossed his orbit at such times, tearing out their but- 
tonholes by his firm grasp, that it w’as none of their business to get 
their rights, but to put things to rights, and he instantly made an 
example of the store-room, on the princi()le of duty beginning at 
home. At such times as these the cottage was no easy berth for 
her. The principle wms beautiful, and he was w'hat the world calls 
an earnest man; but even he w'as subject to human weakness, and 
usually, when he had made things thoroughly uncomfortable, he 
went aw'ay, and left the dust to settle, and the tempers also, and 
other people had to set everything in order, to make up the mixture 
as before. 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


The philosopher seemed pleased to see Adrian; he greeted him 
heartily, forgetful of the state of the guests’-room bed, and together 
they picked their way through the piles of miscellanea in thu cor- 
ridor to the upper room, with the oriel window open to the universal 
3 un or moon, known to that little world as the master’s room, which 
was intact, but for the pictures heaped against the wainscot. The 
walls of this quaint and really elegant chamber were hung with 
iinen-stuff printed with a pattern drawn by the master from the 
sleeve of a doge’s robe in a Venetian picture. It seemed simple and 
even suitable to the idea of the workman at thirty shillings a week, 
but it w'as really costly, as the cylinder for printing the pattern had 
been broken up, and the master kept the design himself. 

He was, in sooth, very glad to see Adrian; since — independently 
of the pleasure of talking of beautiful things with one who under- 
stood them, and seeing his best treasures handled with reverential 
care, instead of being all tidied off the face of the floor, as one 
might brush dead leaves out of the path — the philosopher w'as get- 
ting a little tired of his task, and was glad of a baud to lighten his 
labor. He worked better, perhaps, as an inspector, than as a prac- 
tical journeyman. Then, too, the sight of this companionable 
young man, actually on his road to London, gave him a longing to 
set off as well; and, in the very first ten minutes of Adrian’s being 
in the house, Mr. Fairfax sent the housekeeper to the nearest post- 
ing-house to order post-horses and an open carriage for to-morrow. 

“ The Prophet knows whether I can find you anything to eat,” 
said the host, when they had made their uneasy way down stairs by 
-the dying light, wdiicli had dwindled to dusk everywhere but in the 
master’s oriel window. His habit was to eat when hungry, and he 
drank when dry, without paying regard to meal-times; he reposed 
when weary— “ went to bed dodging,” his servant called it— and 
rose when refreshed. But somehow he alwa3'^s expected to find 
well-cooked food and drink ready to his hand when he felt inclined 
to think of such things. He was what might be called a trial to his 
cook. They made their way into the kitchen. The philosopher 
fumbled for what he styled “one of those pestilential tin match- 
boxes.” He opened jars of everything, such as arrowroot and 
starch, and at last handed Adrian a frying-pan. This was the cook’s 
hour of vengeance. 

“ Can 3’ou cook?” 

“I can fry,” said Adrian. But there seemed to be nothing to 
fry, and thus balked, they sat down to bread-and-cheese, and the 
limpid brook the master had made such a mess of on that busy week 
when he rooted up his briers, and cul the dead stems out of his 
wood, and which had had time to settle since. Mr. Fairfax was 
hungry, and relished the bread-and-cheese. Adrian could not have 
eaten barbecued peacock had it been set before him. 

The philosopher was, as usual, the chief talker. He declaimed 
against the world as being mainly occupied in putting things to 
wrongs; and quoted a philosophic crony of his own. 

“ Do you know how refreshing it is, even to put one’s room to 
rights when it has got dusty and decomposed? If no other happi- 
ness is to te had, the mere war with decomposition is a kind of hap- 
2)iness. The best happiness in the world is, of course, farming, but 


±60 


ADKIAX BRIGHT. 


we cannot all, nor always, obtain that. I find anew recipe for hap- 
piness every day. You are unhappy, I can sec. Try my plan.” 

Adrian did not feel that the joy of sweeping out his studio in 
"Welbeck Street would compensate him entirely for the loss of Her- 
mione. But then he had not tried it. The philosopher proceeded. 
He was so glad to talk, and swallow a little limpid brook after the 
dusting. 

“ 1 write much to the papers, and belong to every philanthropic 
society, out 1 am not so mad as to expect to move people by writ- 
ing, not backed up by personal effort. So 1 try to do good in this 
way, you see.” 

Adrian did ^-ee; he saw and said nothing. The housekeeper saw 
and usually said a good deal. It is to be supposed that Adrian 
grew more contented at this aspect of the joys of bachelor life. He 
did not say he was not. 

” All we want for life is fine art, and bread, new milk, new-laid 
eggs, and the broccoli that our hands have planted.” ■ 

This Mr. Fairfax taught as gospel to his neighbors, rich and poor, 
in the village where he tried to be an Oberlin. The rich liked to 
hear his talk at their dinner-tables, and always asked him to their 
parties; but the poor shook their heads. He was not the squire, and 
could not compel them to walk in his ways. He tried to make an 
Utopia, and he had to keep it to himself. Yet the poor mostly did 
the kind of work he set them, for he wmuld not give, he would only 
pay. 

He tried to make them plant vineyards, but they preferred beer. 
So he caused honest malt to be brewed for them with the sparkling 
water from his own exquisite mineral spring, a ladye-well of olden 
lime; and the folks jeered at him, and said they believed he got it 
out of a pump. But all this is behind the scenes, a stage aside, as 
it were. It is pleasant to discuss one’s opinions wdth one’s bread- 
and-cheese and an intelligent listener, and Mr. Fail fax made the 
most of his opportunity, and played his part well, better than Adrian 
that of the intelligent listener. He traded on his former reputation; 
his thoughts were afar off. Perhaps his Hermione was unliappy, 
and he w'as not by to comfort her. Perliaps she was ga\' and brill- 
iant with friends and — Prothero -Wilson — that were worse; and 
worst, there seemed no end to all this misery, to this long and weary 
day. Would to God that it were night ! His friend perceived his 
woe, and counseled him to action. 

“Youth can make action available,” said he. “lam the one 
who should be sorrowful, eager as I am to act, yet too old for action. 
I have lived through ray illusions, my happiness is thus behind me. 
Your illusions are before you, and therefore your delights. But 
now let us go to bed, and rise to-morrow to enjoy what Johnson 
called the ^"eatest happiness in life, a post-chaise drive to London. 
You must come with me; we both are journeying to town. Let us 
now come up to rest.” 

Few people would have called that rest which had to be begun by 
the removal of Ihe mountain of things, a complete mons 'pieiatis, or 
treasure-lieap, on the guest’s bed. Adrian did not atternot to move 
them. He carefully lifted off the pictures, missals, and draperies 
from a long, large couch that stood at the bed’s fool, disinterred a 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 



pile of Blankets, to satisfy his host, who held the light, and 
himself clown to take the chances night held for him. Perhaps one 
chance might be a dream, a lovely dream. 

Ah me! that day and night were even longer for Hermione, for 
she had to sit still and bear her grief. She had no philosopher and 
friend to whom she might run for diversion, no transcendent works 
of art to look at, no sweet idyllic illusions to invent for the relief of 
a hungry world. She was the worst otf of the two. 

The dawn opened pure and sweet in that peaceful vale. The mere 
sight of its repose was refreshing to Adrian, as he for the moment 
ceased from sadly passionate thought, and let himself feel only the 
fresh air breathing softly on his face while he looked on that calm, 
sleeping Nature, before the sun rose above those opening bars of 
gray and faintest lire. By degrees the trees and velvet meadows 
glistened into woof of gold; and Adrian ran down to the now spark- 
ling Washburn and tried to bathe away the misery of yesterday in 
its refreshing flood. The post-horses were at the gate when his host 
called him to the coffee of his housekeeper’s repentance, for she had 
gone off in higti dudgeon and left her master supperless. But she 
was a good woman and easily remorseful ; so she could bestir her- 
self at such times as parting moments, and make the blessing of 
mutual forgiveness felt. iShe could neither read nor write; and her 
master did not in the least value those arts, nor care to pay anybod}’’ 
for possessing them. She cannot read nor write, but she can feel— 
and she can cook exquisitely, and keep things sweetly clean about 
her, notwithstanding the fatal fly; and by and by, after her master 
is gone, and she has grumbled a little over the promiscuous style of 
his packing, she will dust and rearrange those heaps of plenishing 
with greatest care; and a comfortable bed, with clean sheets, home- 
spun and bleached on his own sweet lawn, and dried on his own 
thy my banks, and lavender edges, will welcome him to the home 
that himself had rendered such a chaos. 

His ideal of a woman’s education w'as that she should be able to 
do these things that this good w'oman did, that she should make 
him comfortable, and her husband (his steward) happy. The bleach- 
ing of white linen on a dewy lawn was his ideal of the poetry of 
manufactures. His own handw^riting, trained upon fair missals and 
fed upon sweet thoughts, was too exquisite for him to give much 
admiration to other people’s current hand, running away with ideas 
that have not power to guide their MSS. into fair or useful form; or 
oftener the pen is but a blackened, gossiping tongue, with nothiug- 
lo tell that is worth telling. So he did not care to have his work- 
men’s or workwomen’s time wasted in that— h’m — trimming; while 
for reading he declared the sweet face of Nature,, the signs of the 
times and seasons, and the wishes of a kind master, were better 
worth studying than nonsense writ in dirty water, black and white 
— black stories, white lies. He held that stories should always be 
written and read in rose- color. 

But the horses are waiting; the white-hatted, sky-blue-jacketed, 
middle-aged postboy is braced up as if he w’ere a trussed turkey, and 
our philosopher, tnis laborer at thirty shillings a week, means to 
travel in this style to Loudon, by way of Pomfret, Sheffield, Lincoln, 
Newark, Grantham, Stamford-and-Burlcigh,Croy land, Peterborough, 




ADMAN- BMGHT. 


and St, Albans, stopping at all these places on the road, and rub-' 
bing up his poetry and history in this pleasantly practical way^ 
opening his eyes to Nature and his heart to his fellow-creatures all 
ihe while (and, not least, testifying against machinery as a contriv- 
ance of the enemy), taking a mental dessert after the solid dinner of 
his every-day studies. And why not? It will take him a week, and 
cost him sixty pounds. It is a cheap way for a man to keep his 
carriage, and nicer than the dail}' treadmill of the park, forever 
whirling round in that dismal circle, like Paolo and Francesca di 
Rimini. It is a pleasant lot to be a laborer at self-appointed tasks 
at thirty shillings a week, provided one has the few odd thousands 
to dip into on occasions like this, or for the fitting-up of cottages 
with treasures that fit them to be the dwelling of love. 

This journey in such companionship was the best thing in the 
world for Adrian Bright, and, could we all choose the best ph3"8ic 
for our sorrow's, 1 w'ould recommend this to all true lovers whose 
course has not run smooth — a soft anodyne, a salve to ease the first 
sharp pain; as a good physician’s first care will be to ease pain, and 
give Nature strength to work out her own curative process. 

It is still Hermione I pity, who felt and knew', poor little linnet^ 
that one day she w'ould be sold for mouej'. 

An orchestra tuned itself up out of the bird-thronged thickets as' 
the travelers drove out of this peaceful dale, idyllic and sw'eet be- 
3'ond measure. No mountain shadowed the valle.y, no rocks tore up 
its sunny slopes, to be in their turn rent by storm into ravines, and 
b3' frost into fissures, widened by the force of vegetable growth, or 
sew'n up by needlework of quartz. Rich fields w'ere turned into 
glades by the fringing screen of graceful branches that illuminated 
their patterns traced in gold upon the sky plan; while the gnarled, 
hoary oak, that patriarch of the dale, lent its weight and the respect- 
ability of its age to shield the landscape from the scorn of the pert 
tourist, who otherwise w'ould condemn it as tame and nupicturesque. 

To see all this, and hear his companion’s exquisite talks about 
natural and political history — for hereabouts the castles and the 
woods are so intimately blended that tales of chivalry and of royal 
prisoners, and lore of all our living things that dwell and bound at 
liberty, are mingled together into one" fretted woof, one woven 
poetry — such talk interested even the thought-bound Adrian. 

“ But, after all,” said Mr. Fairfax, ” my forte is not poetry — it is 
statistics — it is social, and, above all, rural economy!” 

Which show's how little the wisest among us know' ourselves, 
when w'e take the latest toy or game that amuses us for the thing we 
can do best, for the profession we could live by. 

There were glimpses of so much, more than could be spoken of 
in volumes of talk, in the peeps, and the cross-roatls with their sign- 
posts, to places the}' did not see. They were, as it were, gathering 
the finest of the grapes, the tallest of the ears of corn, and leaving 
the boundless harvest and the vintage for those who should follow- 
after them. Nature is so inexhaustible; her best is as freely given, 
to the penniless tramp as to the self-styled poor philosopher vvho has 
his sixty pounds to spare. The birds sing none less sw'eetly to him 
who has not a copper in his pocket, nor even a bread-crumb to pay 


ADllIAJS" BRIGHT. 133 

them with. Nature gives nothing for money, but all for work and 
our thanks. 

Later on, the moonlight, rising benignantly, luminous out of the 
leafy twilight, allowed soft thoughts to rise, and even forgiveness of 
some one for another’s sake; a mother erring, perhaps, through over 
care for her loved one, her one ewe lamb, her only child. In this 
soft, healing, tender moonlight she might be fordven. See! the 
moon rises, "and bursts refulgent out of the densely gathered clouds, 
showing forth her silver glory. The lover can wait trustfully until 
other clouds disperse, and the power that is within him is disclosed 
to a waiting universe, when he shall gain the day and carry oft the 
bride who is now denied him, the chaste goddess of his love and 
hope. Thus, of these two who were guests and sojourners in these 
unfamiliar woodland paths, the one would move on in mental swift- 
ness toward a far and beauteous distance; the other, older in years, 
graver in manner, supposed to be staider in demeanor, has already 
flashed himself in reformed lighlninc: over half the world. Nay, 
he has created a world, a Utopia, and he now expends himself in 
plans for dragging people in to fill it, to enjoy the destiny they are 
to receive at his hands. The post-boy— well, he is nobody; he'only 
speculates about the quality of the beer at their halting-places for 
the night. 

And thus they went on, lapped in a week’s elysium, whirling 
through a glad and beautiful world; keeping all its misery well out 
of sight behind the storied castles and fair woods. But grief, 
though deadened, must have its vent at last. 

All England is not Merrie England; there are still parts where the 
smoke-shroud hangs pitiless over the seeing and the blind; where 
the people are miserable, and, worse still, where they propose to re- 
main wretched. Perhaps their condition is not their idea of 
wretchedness; but the fact remains the same, and is not altered by 
their opinions. 1 wish them every blessing, even that of seeing 
that they are poor and starving and naked and half stifled, because 
that will show a dawn of enlightenment within. The friends ap- 
proached London in the cloudy afternoon. 

“ The curse of your modern life is fatally near; the bill posters’' 
art has become the principal fine- art of modern Europe; perhaps it 
is as well, since w^e are inevitably blinded by our smoke,” said our 
philosopher, as the travelers passed through the pleasant lanes 
leading from Harrow to the Finchley Road, and lines of villas and 
abundance of brick-fields showed them they had reached the greater 
London. The Yorkshire post-boy knew the Eyre Arms for a good 
tap, and to him London porter was as good as any drink which 
flowed. Sir Henry Meux was his great high-priest; a pewter 
measure the god of his idolatry. He was always happy. A con- 
tented mind is a perpetual— beast. 


CHAPTER XXL 

“ To me he seems like diamond to glass.”— Pericles. 

Let us see Tante in the bosom of her family. ]\lr. Bright opened 
the door to her on her arrival — no one was ever kept wuiiting for 
ceremony in that house— and the baker’s dozen of children all pre- 


134 


ADKIAX BKIGHT. 


cipitated themselves in a body upon her. Cinderella jumped upon her 
neck, JVlay and Junia caught her hands, the twins her gown, the 
others fastened upon unsecured points, the baby danced high in the 
background, held in the arms of Friol, the foreign man-servant of 
the establishment; while a shiny, apple-faced maiden filled up a dis- 
tant corner. All the family news was poured forth in a heap, with 
running commentary to make full measure. 

“ Mamma, Baby said ‘ Erard ’ quite plainly,” said Julia. ” He’s 
a musical genius, I know.” 

” Oh! how INladame Lucie is black!” said Friol, seeing how 
Mrs. Bright had been tanned by the holiday sun. 

” Oh, mamma, Augusta was crying, over her dead bird, holding 
it head downward,” screamed a twin, ” and pussy snapped at it.” 

“Mamma, Bambino has grown so clever, he cut off all Junia’s 
dress buttons to play games with,” said the other twin. They were 
Arthur and Uther, often called the Pendragons, oftener the Gemini, 
by May the Dioscuri. She had just begun Latin at the High School. 

“ Bobby taught him to do it,” said the bereft Junia. 

“ Bobby has not become a bonus puer while you have been ab- 
sent,” said May, the High School girl, (Btat thirteen. 

“ Mamma, Rosetta actually wants to make us a pudding of white 
starch!” said Cinderella, the eldest daughter now at home, a pretty 
girl of sixteen, who was sometimes dreadfully put out by a new 
foreign servant’s ways. 

And so the ball of talk rolled on, gathering clamor, if not more 
new^s. Mrs. Bright, meanwhile, was nearly overwhelmed by the 
caresses of her offspring. They were like eager hounds leaping up 
about the huntsman before the fox is flung out to them. 

“Look at Bimbo, mamma,” said Cinderella. “Isn't he a 
Greuze?” 

“No, he’s a Correggio,” contradicted Augusta. “Adrian al- 
ways says he is quite a Correggio.” 

“ Just now he is much more like a Greuze,” said the sister. 

“ Well, let us come to tea, and I shall be able to hear all about 
everything,” said Mrs. Bright, taking her pretty baby (very like a 
Raffaelle, this one) from Priol, after divesting herself of her wraps. 
The well-stowed luggage had all been carried off by the boys for 
speculative investigation; “ had up for exam.,” they called it. 

Cinderella had arranged a tea-dinner; and IMr. Bright employed 
himself in piling his wife’s plate, and in other ways making her 
welcome. The children waited upon her, as the nursery tea had 
been over some time, and they could not let her out of their sight. 
She was very tenderly loved, especially on her home-coming. Cin- 
derella came up from a raid into the kitchen. 

“ It’s a mercy I went down at thnt moment, or the mutton chops 
would have gone into the beef tea.” 

Friol brought up the chops, and some dubious dish that looked 
Hke an experiment; but dishes of this sort w^ere too common under 
Cinderella’s rule to excite much notice. They all worked hard at 
helping Mrs. Bright to her tea; it may have been as hard work to 
her as to the rest of the family, but she w^as too good-natured to say 
so. Even a monarch may be too popular for his peace, much more 
50 the mother of thirteen children. Bimbo sat at the table, and the 


ADRIAN' BRIGHT. 


135 

boy next above him, Uther, the smallest of the twins, stood by his 
side, botli looking on with upward expression, and their arms folded 
on the white cloth, like Raffaelle’s cherubs in the picture of the 
Madonna di San Susto. Cinderella drew her mother’s attention to 
this. 

But I must infroduce Mr. Bright, lie deserves attention at my 
hands. Mr. Bright is between forty and fifty, good-looking still, 
and better natured; full of all manner of amiable weaknesses, and 
still his wife’s devoted lover. 

Mr. Bright had graduated in arts at Oxford, and at the university 
had indulged himself in most of Oxford’s floating and traditional 
theories. He was brought up for some learned profession, which 
remained indefinite; but he had of late years devoted himself to sci- 
ence, natural and experimental, and a scientific man without a chair, 
or some other berth, is seldom in a position to win money. He stud- 
ied hygiene with energy and styled himself a doctor avertive or pre- 
ventive, in contradistinction to doctors curative. Ho had taken a 
degree of M.B. at Oxford, and, although he never practiced medi- 
cine outside his family, he was alw’ays spoken of as “ the doctor ” 
by his servants. He said of himself he was born a generation too 
early, so far were his ideas in advance of the limes; and this not in 
medical practice only, but in every theory he started. 

His private means were easy, though not affluent; nobody’s are 
who has a baker’s dozen of children. To the world he seemed to 
have nothing to do; but between him and the idle there w'as all the 
difference there is between time embalmed and time merely disem- 
bodied. He was perfectly happy in his family. Mrs. Bright was 
easy-going enough to let him have his full fling in the matter of ex- 
periments; so that the dining-room and study fireplaces were always 
at work cooking or carbonizing some chemical or another. He 
was alw'ays maneuvering to get command of the kitchen fire too; 
but was met by a firm attitude of repulse on the part of Friol, at 
the head of the kitchen authorities, who stood to their saucepans 
gallantly, though sometimes he carried off a trophy, notwithstand- 
ing the heat of their temper, in the shape of a tinful of pounded 
phosphates. This resistance to science was one of Mr. Bright’s 
greatest trials. 

The aim of all his exp)eriments was “ to prove the peifectibility 
of tissue.” For this he baked fine phosphates and stewed potassae; 
and with these fell experimentally Cinderella’s suufiowers and a 
race of long-legged fowls;, also Bobby’s big dog and his own chil- 
dren, Mrs. Bright supplying certain antidotes occasionally. He 
held that bone was strengthenable and lengthenable to any extent 
by means of phosphates judiciously, that is to say, plentifully, sup- 
plied; and the muscular tissue supported on this enlarged framework 
was only to be kept in high condition by more pjliosphates, and an 
adequate provision of certain forms of potassium. Of course, the 
supply of these two materials in sufticient quantity to produce and 
maintain the fine physique he desired to see in the whole biological 
globe was the motive of much industrious experiment, since he con- 
tended that most of our daily refuse might be reconverted into val- 
uable nutriment. His dream was to manifest the value uf his theory 
by bringing a ” Derby runner ” to perfection. Secure in his own 


136 


ADRIAN BRIGHT, 


judgment, he meant to go some day to a remote country place, 
where horses are healthy and jockeys honest, aud select some 
promising animal of rough appearance, buy it for a mere song, be- 
■cause of its rough exterior, aud so scientifically to strengthen its 
bone aud develop its muscle that it should inevitably carry oif the 
honors of Epsom Downs. The very babies lisped of phosphates, 
and middling sized children dearly loved helping papa to prepare his 

■ 'Compounds; so they helped science forward by pounding oyster- 
shells that, having been calcined in the dining-room fire, made the 

^ purest form of lime, which Mr. Bright artfully contrived to smug- 
gle into the piecrust, wdien he could. At one time he was so de- 
lighted with a find of big oysters, that he continually had them sent 
in by the fishmonger, tor the enjoyment of his family; chuckling 
over the idea that one of these shells wmuld go as far as half a 
•i dozen of natives. jMrs. Bright felt she could dispense with oysters 
under these conditions, and advised his buying the shells only. 
Thus the dining-room fire still spluttered and spat out every oyster- 
shell it was fed upon, and Mrs. Bright bought a strong plate glass 
2 fire-screen to defend her children from the shot and shell. 

■ Having an object in life, aud being allowed to pursue it in com- 
parative peace, Mr. Bright was positively a happy man, and would 

•> have been superlative'y so had it not been for that Naboth’s vine- 
yard of a kitchen fireplace; and his books having overflowed from 
his study and encroached on rows of the kitchen dresser, 'which 
b broucht him into collision with what may be called the retardative 

f worldly influences which impede progress b}^ their friction. Friol 

1 was his only bane. Friol, the factotum of the establishment, who 
t acted nominally as footman, occasionally as cook, and usually as 

r Mrs. Bright’s model in her pictures. He was a model-of-all-work; 

l could stand as well for Romeo as Shylock, as w'ell for King John as 

^ Brutus, and for a gondolier or poetical ploughman as required. It 
would not have been a household, but a house let go, without 
Friol, the ubiquitous, whose gold ear-rings and dark curls focussed 
1 the interest of all the other movables. He was a Swiss from the 
Orisons, who spoke originally only the Romance tongue: but he 
>; had picked up some French during a sojourn in Geneva, and these 
languages had of late become subtly blended with the dialects of the 
changing maid-servants, correct English, as usually spoken by the 
^ family, aud slang as it is spoken in the street, and by Bobby, the 

j fourtii son of Mr. and Mrs. Bright, named, from his general dispo- 

j . sition, l^obert le Diable. For many munths Friol had but one En- 
|s glish sentence, which he carefully learned and applied on all occa- 

I sions, as street boys hacknej” the latest popular song; this was 

“Come again at seven o’clock;” this having once seemed conclu- 

• -sive aud satisfactory to some person calling on business, he took it 

f as common English form of politeness, as one might say “ Please to 

i walk in.” But now he could speak English, and say “ 1 am a Ro- 

■ man,” winch was freely translated back by the boys into “ Quel 
i rummun.” Ay, too much English, for he could utter his griev- 

• ances, and complain of his master having filled his oven “ with a 

dollop of egg-shells to make his bominabull pospits of.” 

^ Mr. Bright kept fowls and various animals for study and exper- 

iment under wdre netting on the roofs of the buildings, which in 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. ' 


13T 


most of the Welbeck Street liousesarecoach-lionses and stables, bua 
■which were here turned into a range of sculptor’s studios, devoted 
to the use of his nephew, Adrian Bright. Tliese animals ■were the 
objects of Friol’s deadly jealousy. They w^ere never allowed to be 
killed for culinar}’- purposes, and attentions were paid to them that 
were denied to the domestic offices. 

“ The fowls has been white\vashed three times,” said Friol, the 
jealous and aggrieved, ” and 1 have not been whitewashed once;” 
and he looked at the scullery walls darkened with gas and Loudon 
use, and at his room, where he slept down among the ” beadles ” 
in a turn up bed. 

But Mr. Bright never made his wife aware of his horror of this 
man-servant. He was too indulgent ever to upset any of her ar- 
rangements, and even her quickness did not divine the source of his 
doinestic trouble. 

” As Friol is such a success,” said Mrs. Bright, innocently, ” 1 
think it would be worth our while to import his cousin to work 
under him as cook.” 

Mrs. Bright was soul-weary of the British cook, and she wanted 
to lighten Cinderella’s responsibilities: this is why Rosetta from Ger- 
man-speaking Switzerland had lately come to make an element in 
the household melodrama. 

” Dritte classe,” said Mr. Bright, •wdio was no German scholar, 
looking over the waybill of instructions and expenses Friol had 
written, ” Oh. that’s the dirty class, 1 suppose.” 

Soon after Rosetta’s arrival, when she was engaged in her favor- 
ite fancy-work of mopping down the area, a policeman entered into 
conversation with her— ” Good-morning, miss,” and added a few 
words showing a general interest in her. She thought he w^as in- 
forming her that she had not lodged her personal description at the 
police office, nor was her permission to reside in England tim. She 
was polite, but uneasy, and entered into a long exp)lanatiou of why 
she had not yet gone through these formalities. 

She had not long arrived when Mrs. Bright set out on her York- 
shire tour, in fact, only long enough for her mistress to be < harmed 
with her appearance, in a mantilla-like arrangement of a black knit- 
ted shawl about her head, veiling a pretty face, and Jong, elabo- 
rately wrought eardrops; but Junia, who took her to church on the- 
first Sunday evenina:, was scandalized at her having no bonnet, that 
she apparently never dreamed of gloves, and went to church in a 
white worked aproji, and large cuffs, and a silver ring on her fore- 
finger. Her large Noah’s ark, full of luggage, contained many 
changes of this raiment. 

Thing.s worked smoothly enough while Mrs. Bright was away; 
but on the last morning Rosetta had not dusted the dining-room— 
and goodness knows it always needed it, especially now the oyster 
season had begun, and the shells were spattering in the lire as usual. 
Mr. Bright was anxious that the house should look its best to wel- 
come its mistress. 

” Rosetta has done this work perfunctorily,” said he, in confi- 
dential talk with Cinderella. “Call up Friol and tell him to ex- 
plain this to her.” 

” I don’t like to ask Friol to do it, papa,” said Cinderella. ” H& 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


138 

is cross because, in hanging up the furniture so as to be ready for 
mamma’s coming, he fell down with the steps, and Bobby says he 
has marked his shins and body with stripes all up.” 

” Well, we can’t have the work done in a perfunctory way. What 
is the German for perfunctory? Look out perfunctory. ” 

Cinderells was nonplused. 

‘‘She speaks Romance best, papa, and Romance is more like 
Latin than French or German.” 

She had heard a visitor say that in the Grisons they spoke Ger- 
man, Latin, and French, and used them together, and the Romance 
was a mixture of the three tongues. Adrian, too, had said that the 
Romance was most like the Latin. 

‘‘ You should find your Latin of use here, papa,” said Cinderella. 

Ikir. Bright remembers this; but his Latin is rusty, as he finds 
When he wants to use it, which he never did before, and he has for- 
gotten the Latin for ” Please dust the table and the rest of the furni- 
ture particularly well to-day, because; your mistress is coming 
liome.” Rosetta passes the door. He calls her in. ” Mensa, a 
table ” 

He points. She looks dusty in mind herself, and cannot see the 
meaning through the medium of the Latin. Cinderella suggests 
that May learns Latin at the High School, and hers may be the 
modernest and most usable form. Shall she call May?” 

‘‘Dear me, yes.” Mr. Bright is for applied science in all its 
branches. 

May, of the High School, came in. She was nervous but plucky 
and rushed in where her father, the Oxford graduate, feared to 
tread. 

” Ah. vocative, of course, O mensa. Oh! table.” 

May looked shocked at the table, and made an upstirring move- 
ment with her right hand. 

” Well, 1 never thought there was any sense in the vocative be- 
fore,” said Cinderella. 

‘‘ Fancy bringing this in, after all,” said Mr. Bright, quite 
pleased with his find in his daughter’s practicable Latin, and the 
idea of utilizing his own. ” They say, keep a thing seven years and 
you will find a use for it, and I have had my Latin more than seven 
years. 1 shall find a use for some of mine by and by.” He took a 
turn at the tilt ” O mensa,” looking also horrified at the condition 
of the table. But, having occasion to refer to the Latin dictionary 
for the construction of his sentence of warning Rosetta not to per- 
form her work perfunctorily, he left the continuatiion of the dia- 
logue to May, who aired her Latin bravely. 

” Here, Rosetta, mensa, oh! table; hie, haec, hoc, table, mensa 1 
mean, now at present, as in prsesenti. Do you quite understand?” 

She has an inkling, and nods and bobs her long, glittering ear- 
rings. When Mr. Bright returned, the furniture was so well pol- 
lished that his fine sentence about perfunctory work was not needed. 
He laid it by in paper for future use. Mr. Bright was pleased at 
putting the family Latin to profit, his own having never brought 
him in interest. But Rosetta, by the assistance of Friol and her ot her 
opportunities, speedily picked up some English, and Air. Bright’s 
Latin turned in for another seven years’ sleep; while as for May, 




ADRIAN BRIGHT. 139 

she became more than ever the pride of the High School, and a 
terror to the great unlearned world. 

Mr. Bright was going to the co-operative stores to lay in provisions 
before his wife’s arrival. He called for a list of requirements for 
the house. 

“ What is it she wants, ’Rella? Is it the flour-bags? ‘ Zwiebags,^ 
she says.” 

” She means biscuits.” 

“ Oh, what, biscuit bags?” 

“No, not bags ai all. Zwieback is biscuits, papa. Robb’s Bis- 
cuits, for bab 3 ^” 

‘‘ Ya, Herr Doctor. Ich babe de millech von gestern morgen 
geboilt mit der Pape fiir Bebe und beeskeets von heute.” 

“ What is all this?” said the bewildered Mr. Bright. ” We must 
have up Friol.” 

He came in grimly. 

” She has scolded (scalded) the milk,” explained he. 

Himself looked as if he could have scolded everybody. 

” Have we got pearl barley?” asked Mr. Baight, who laid great 
stress on varying the cereal food of the family. 

Cinderella tried to make Rosetta understand. 

” Ach, vogel kopf!” said she, with the dawning light. 

” Birds’ heads, yes,” said Friol. 

“ No, not bird seeds; barley, pearl barley,” said Mr. Bright. 

This kind of profitable dialogue always went on when the house- 
hold provisions were discussed. 

Mr. Jos Bright at length made out his list, and went to the stores 
with his flour-bags in his pockets. 

” I get twopence a-piece for these,” he explained to Cinderella, 
“ so I save eightpence by that transaction.” 

” 80,041,” said he, arriving at the stores, and holding his ticket 
high above the heads of the ladies sitting at the counters. 

” Yes, sir. In a moment, sir,” said the clerk, who knew him, 
and always attended to him quickly. Shopping at the stores is 
always more or less a struggle, but Mr. Bright, as a tall man, com- 
manded more speedy attention than the loungers at the counter gen- 
erally, and he could alwaj^s be handed his purchases over the heads 
of the crow'd. 

” 80,041, a pot of jam.” 

“ In one minute, sir.” 

“ 80,041, pickles.” 

” Other counter, sir.” 

“80,041,” and so forth. “80,041,” said he, in another depart- 
ment, giving up his flour-bags. “ There was some mistake about 
this flour.” 

“ Who served 3 ^ 11 , sir?” 

“ It was a man with a mild obliquity of vision.” 

“ Don’t know him, sir. There’s no man answering to that de- 
scription here.” 

“ Yes, there he goes. Do you see it now?” 

“ I never sav/ it before,” and the clerk grinned convulsively at the 
squint. 

80,041 finished his business at the stores; the “ Cob,” as the boys, 


ADRIA2T BErGIlT. 


140 

and of course all the family, called it— “ co-operative stores,” is 
too long and crack- jawed a name for every day use in a large family 
— and in the afternoon home came the ” Cob ” box. 

“ Oh, cobbox, cobbox,” screamed Bimbo, who loved to help un- 
pack the case. “Oh, you good cobbox man,” said he to the carter. 
Bimbo was always in the way to help This was his kindergarten. 

Mrs. Bright had a horror of the “ Cob,” and only wrote for what 
she required; the noise, bustle, and waste of time were not com- 
pensated to her by the greater cheapness of the goods; but Mr. 
Bright liked to shop there, as it seems many gentlemen do, by the 
numbers of them one sees at the Army and Navy “ Cob ” stores. 

Mr. Joshua Bright’s deadly foe was the retail trader. He was the 
most easily cheated of men in some things. For instance, if a good, 
honest countryman wanted him lo become a customer for anything; 
he would buy it without questioning the man’s goodness or honesty, 
and a small shop, served by a woman with a baby in her arms, 
would have its merits exalted through the whole circle of his per- 
sonal friends. But, if he hated, as a rule, the retail trader in the 
abstract, he still more scorned what he called the private “ Cobs,” 
shops which advertised themselves as “stores,” and he loved to 
tease the people who sent him their circulars; thus he championized 
the public, and especially considered the poor. The rich, he argued, 
might shop in Bond Street, 

“This fellow has sent me his circular, and I see his prices are 
dearer than the Cnb. Oh! the rascally retail trader; he’s not con- 
tent with twenty-flve per cent, he must try to make thirty. How are 
the poor to live, when traders must make thirty per cent. I see 
this fellow has one thing on his list cheaper than the Cob. That’s 
& bait; I’ll go and get some of that. And cocoa too, I see he has 
cocoa at seven pence the tin.” 

“ He will hate you so, papa,” said Cinderella. 

“ I had rather not be his friend, ’Bella. I shall get a tin of cocoa, 
and some of that one shilling pineapple.” 

He set forth to worry the circular sender. 

“I’ll take a tin of your pineapple;” handing him the price, 
marked one sliilling. 

“ It’s one-and-six, sir.” 

“ Here’s your printed list.” 

“ That’s a misprint, sir.” 

“ But one can buy the fresh fruit at Singapore for twopence!” 
aside: “ What an enormous profit!— Well, never mind; I’ll take some 
of your sevenpenny tins of cocoa instead.” 

The man’s face fell; this was cheaper than the “ Cob ” price; 
however, he brought the cocoa. 

“ That’s a smaller-sized cocoa tin— ten ounces, not twenty 
ounces.” 

“ That’s a large tin, sir,” 

“ Well, it is a tin of a certain magnitude,” said Jos,“ but it is not 
up to the twenty-ounce tin. I’ll take a couple of the twenty-ounce 
tins at sevenpence.” 

The man sulkily made up the parcel, and Mr. Jos Bright went off 
with his prize. Outside the sho[) he saw a poor, liungry-lookiug 
woman, with a baby in her arms, and he gave her one of the cocoa 


ADRlAls^ BRIGHT. 141 

tins and a few coppers besides, to buy milk and sugar with. Thus 
he oftenest regulated London trade prices. 

JMr. Jos entWed another shop. 

“ Have you any sixpenny tins of lobster?” 

Wouldn’t keep them, sir,” scornfully. 

“ A good many respectable shops do.” 

“ I wouldn’t keep such stock.” 

“ Whal’s your price, then?” 

Sixpence halfpenny I can recommend as first-class, sir.” 

Mr. Bright had his oddities, certainly; but for his genuine good- 
ness he was respected by his neighbors, and beloved by all his serv- 
ants, excepting maybe Friol, though he forgave his master— perhaps 
as one forgives one’s enemies on Sundays, in a general sense — 
though they had better not try to do it again. Few persons left his 
service except to marry; and his former man servant, who, of 
course, married the cook, and left the Brights to set up a lodging- 
house, said he would go anywhere with Dr. Bright— “ even to Ire- 
land.” 

In his house he certainly carried his theories and hygienic meas- 
ures to the verge of inconvenience, but he gave, personally, so little 
trouble, and he was so ready to be the first to take all the trouble of 
bis plans, that one could not help pardoning him. Simple and easy 
Mrs. Bright admired him for it. and for everything he did, even for 
what other people called his fidgets. 

“ Mr. Bright is as Greek in feeling, as simply modeled on the 
antique, as any man I know. What other man would go for a can 
of red paint, just for Cinderella and the boys to muddle about 
with?” Other people would aopositely ask— when they got outside 
— And what other mother would let Cinderella and the boys do the 
muddling? 

But we are concerned with their high lea now, and we— like the 
-eager- to -talk children— must let Mrs. Bright tell her travels. 

A dish was brought in with a creature like a spread-eagle upon it. 
It was larded, stuffed, and it smelled very good, with wine sauce. 

AVhat is this?” asked Mrs. Bright. 

“ It is a rabbit,” said Cinderella. ” Papa bought it for tea, and I 
did not know the word for it in German nor Romance; so we called 
it a Thier; and Friol took off its seven top skins, as they do in his 
country. He was shocked at our way of leaving what he calls the 
skin on; he says there are seven skins below the fur.” 

It was, indeed, very good, and a vast improvement on roast rab- 
bit, English fashion. 

” What’s bread and-butter in German, ’Rella?” said Mr. Bright. 

” Butter brod, papa.” 

“ Here, gritty grod here, Rosetta!” quoth Mr. .los. trying to ask 
for butter brod for his baby. ” Signs are so good.” 

” Aus dere das Toor shoot,” said Mr. Bright, lucidly, as a last 
direction to the new handmaiden. ” Signs are so good.” 

‘‘‘Bitte’is easier,” said Mrs. Bright. “She’ll understand it 
better then ‘ Seyn sie so gut.’ ” 

“ Das Toor shoot— bitter, as you say in German.” She actually 
shut the door! Foreigners are so quick of apprehension. 


142 


ADRIAN" BRIGHT. 


‘‘Do you find much trouble in Rosetta not understanding the 
tradespeople? asked Mrs. Bright of lier eldest daughter. 

No! Friol helps us out, and 1 have told her that when anybody 
comes to the area-gate and calls out, ' Boddles. old boddles,' she is 

to sfiy, JN IX. 

Mr. Britrht smiled. 

“ Ah ! I said mamma would roar,” said Bobby. 

The smile broadened into a laugh at this. 

„ ‘‘ I tion’t care to learn inuch German mysel f, ” said Bobby, stoutly. 
T> Fsel,’ that is enough for me.” 

Bobby was a demon of destruction in the house, but a splendid- 
looking boy and a hying proof of the yalue of Mr. Bright’s system 
that 18 , the theory that upholds the value of phosphates in nutrition’ 
for he ate as much of phosphates and everything else as he could 

get. 

trans-a-latina for papa,” said the more good- 
natured Uther Pendragon, who. however, looked up to Bobby his 
senior by two years, as a demi-god. 

‘‘ Rosetta is teaching me to ‘knit in the quick Swiss wav ” said 

knU t pounds of red wool to 

Knit feet to her own stockings.” 

top of the house and a pair 
speak to the tradespeople in,” said &n- 
derella, and goes without between wdiiles. ” 

Brio-ht^ ’«vool to knit socks therefore,” said Mrs. 

trifelUln^To"! "‘'“’'•V 

p. ffing Kop d-o®r 

chaoc/was“ioit.“‘' ^^amblno’s 

dragoir’ already,” interrupted Arthur Pen- 

. - a shame to tell upon him; ou mamma’s first day too ” 

troublir’“™ B'"' lliat was the least of Bobby’s 

mark?” asked mamma. 

‘‘.Bn rvltsW^nrimTal’^'^'^^ --^^erently. 

Do you mean he has forgiven you?” 

to ;!Tof 

■‘Sb^uifurtrr 

sttfaTstrdiTorknow.’?"^’’"' “ 

shouted™' elapsed, and Rosetta 

“ Ami wll"t'l“re^?^ri?l"bee^n“^irg"®,!^i/;!‘l>^^ 

ot;L f;pyri?i'\r ?.e‘wL7oS:n.‘ --““‘‘ilifflcutties 

1 11 lend you my hard crusts that i tau’t eat,” said Bimbo to 


ADEIAX BRIGHT. 143 

Gussie, who was, of course, thankful. The tide of history rolled 
on. 

“ I have been learning drawing,” cried Julia, ” and they inademe 
measure the tendrils of the sweet peas?” It is difficult to teach 
drawing satisfactorily to an artist’s children. They have such very 
advanced views. 

” And the drawing looked shiny as a black-leaded stove!” said 
Junia. 

” Papa took to feeding us all on beans and lentils while you were 
away,” whispered ’Rella, when Mr. Bright went out to see to some 
precious mess he was making in his study fireplace. 

” Until we broke out all over spots,” roared Bobby. 

” With too much nitrogen, I think it was,” said May. “ I recom- 
mend papa to send us to camp out with Uncle Joe, to get oxygen to 
neutralize the nitrogen.” Even studious May did not object occa- 
sionally to a holiday. Uncle Jo, Adrian’s father, was a connoisseur 
in oxygen, and lived on meteorological speculations. He had all the 
habits of a comfortable vagrant. 

And so they talked on and laughed and were a very happj'’ fam- 
ily; unfil the children’s bedtime, postponed for to-night to an ab- 
normal period, brought calm and room for rational conversation in 
plain English to Mr. and Mrs. Bright. One little lingerer remained 
-in the drawing-room after the others had vanished, and came nest- 
ling up to the sofa where ]\[rs. Bright sat resting and reading her 
letters, recruiting herself after the journey to Loudon, and her long 
walk to Thirsk. 

“ Poor mamma,” said Bambino, “ do you want to be loved?” 
And he hugged in close by her side, looking loving and lovely as a 
Correggio. But ruthless beings came and carried him off, and the 
house grew very quiet. 

” Guto nacht, Herr Doctor and Frau Doctor,” said Rosetta, also 
on her earl}’^ way up to bed. 

” Very well, very well,” said Mr. Bright, not understanding a 
vord, but wishing to conciliate. The house might have been on 
fire, and he would not have understood Rosetta, if she came to rrive 
the alarm. Luckily, this is not an every-day occurrence. 

Not many days after Mrs. Bright’s return came Adrian to his 
studio, gloomy and mi.serable. He had never before failed in 
an enterprise, and here he was foiled, and foiled by the shallowest 
and most worldly of women. He had no argument wdiich could 
stoop low enough to convince her. With Mrs. Nugent, as we know, 
happiness was a mere sentiment, not the vital necessity of marriage, 
and not to be weighed for a moment against wealth, a fine house, . 
and fashionable raiment; whereas with Adrian clothing meant 
di apery, and was delightful only in so far as it helped out his idea 
of what lay within that drapery. 

He sought consolation with the kindly Tante, in whose house he 
was like an elder son. She, like a wise woman, tried to interest 
him the more fervently in his art, and out of despondency to bring 
progress. She did not tr}’^ to turn his anger upon Hermione, his 
thoughts from her, as most people wouhl have done. She loved 
the beautiful girl too much herself for this, and never thought of 
visiting her mother’s sins up(>n her head. 


ADRIA.^ BRIGHT. 


144 

“ We live by admiration, hope, and love,’' said she to Adrian, as 
soon as she thought he was able to bear it, and laying an emphasis 
on the word hope. 

“ How lovely she was!” said she another time, when they were 
talking of Hermione and the pleasant Yorkshire days, when the 
gloomy quiet of the London December was over, and he had been 
working hard — ay, fiercely — alone, endeavoring to keep at bay the 
actual despair that possessed his soul when he was not at work. 
“ Do you remember that sketch you made of her at Rievaulx 
Abbey, Adrian? You should work that out, and then you would 
always have before your eyes an image of perfect beauty. You 
should make a Galatea of your marble.” 

He went to his studio in more elastic spirits than he had had for 
long, and worked out the exquisite memory he had of Hermione 
Nugent, and weeks— nay, months — rolled on, not utterly blank 
with despair. How could they be, when he mingled with the 
interests of that busy merry house of which he was the pride? 

Such being the outlines of Mrs. Bright’s household, what wonder 
is it if the cross-hatching laid thereon occasionally became confused 
when looked at too minutely ? Yet, when seen at a proper distance, 
the pictures so viewed became purposeful, and even beautifuL 
The coloring was always harmonious, because they were a happ}’’, 
loving family, and their aims, if high-flown and often mistaken, 
were of a kind that elevated them above the meannesses of life, 
while these took none of the piquancy from its ludicrous aspects, 
from the humorous side of life, the sweet playfulness that add& 
such a charm to remembrance. One needs so much of human comedy 
to leaven the weight of sadness or monotony in real life. (L know 
not which is heaviest.) Shakespeare and our earlier dramatists saw 
this, and so did the Gothic artists, with their curious grotesques, 
which recognize so fully that even the good and Christian life is not 
all smoothed by convention to one decorous dullness. 

To be healthy one must have laughter; both Mr. and Mrs. Bright 
recognized this, and often winked at the improvisations which 
caused variety in their working system comparable with the 
” sports ” that nature throws off among plants. One is likely to 
get more mirth out of the impromptu drollery of a family than from 
the polished wit of a book. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

“ Filum Labyrinthi.” 

Adrian had not come in vain to Mrs. Bright for consolation and 
advice. She sent him to his work calm, and in condition to develop 
his seed-time into a harvest of good roots, if not of flowers, the 
seed being none the worse for being sown in tears. She promised 
to turn his case over in her mind, and try if woman’s wit could 
avail him anything; and, having once promised, she resolved to see 
what more could be done for him in case of work not being able to 
drive that other interest from his head and heart. 

She cogitated over the luckless love-story, and drove plot and 
counterplot through her brain, to the detriment of her work for the 
Exhibition. 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


145 


“Dear me, this will never do,” she pondered. “This work 
would never have gained me my diploma as member of the Water- 
color Society. People will sa.y 1 am falling off.” 

A ring was heard at her visitor’s bell. 

Mrs. Bright was sitting at the window of her first-floor front room 
— I do not say her drawing-room, because that would not have been 
the impression given bj" the room. As she said herself, it was 
empty of all but the beautiful, and — just some painters’ lumber. 
There were none of the conventional belongings to a drawing- 
room, yet neither was it a studio. A grand piano covered with fine 
painting stood in the middle of the room. Two or three large boxes, 
full of music and drawings, covered with loose drapery or skins, 
rolled easily about, on castors, and formed seats. There were 
several handsome plants growing in the room, among them a tall 
eucalyptus, much petted by the master for sanitary reasons, and the 
•walls were covered with pictures of all sorts and styles, from the 
pen-and-ink scrawl to the old master, and sketchy freehandinesses 
painted on the walls themselves, but all clever and (in some way) 
delightful. The rest of the furniture w’as what Mrs. Bright called 
“ latter-day crazes,” a promiscuous grouping of what the family 
were most lately employed upon, or odtls and ends of what the 
world was most lately talking of; new books, and specimens of the 
world’s newest ideas, chiefly for sifting, that the family and their 
friends might consider whether they were worthy of more attention 
or not, concerning which they held the discourse styled by their 
intimate friends “ Bright on the Beautiful;” and Mr. Bright’s latest 
discoveries in science were always to be found embodied in some 
fornri of rummage or another, either in, on, or about a beautifully 
colored inlaid cabinet, called by Friol, at first quite accidentally, “ a 
chest of trousers,” and it had kept the name ever since; only Bimbo 
disputed it, and said it was “ a chest of dawlers,” The room was 
essentially a living-room, but it was the living-room of intellectu- 
ally cultured people. 

Mrs, Bright was sitting at the window leaning half out, sketching 
in charcoal an effect of the street lamps by day reflected in the mud; 
one ot those fine bits of chiaroscuro that ought to make so niau}'^ 
Rfiinbrandts of us Londoners, 

There was another ring and a while of waiting; and Tante saw a 
young lady take out a sea-green feather from her pocket, and de- 
liberately pin it in her hat on the doorstep. 

Mrs. Bright ran down to tell her to come in and arrange her mil- 
linery at more ease; but from the stairhead she saw Friol, who 
usually ot a morning went incognito or looked like a gondolier in 
his shirt-sleeves, struggling into the gay garments of parade which 
hung on a peg in the hall ready for sudden need. He had just 
caught sight of the visitor through the long^lass panes at the side 
of the door; in fact, the two saw'eacli other, and Mrs. Bright saw 
them both. She said nothing, but withdrew; and when Friol of 
the glorious garb announced Miss Flitters, Tante received with ap- 
parent unconsciousness the graceful Flitters of the sea-green plume. 

Little Flitters was not reticent. She was an out-spoken damozel, 
and never minded telling an anecdote, however mucli it might make 
against herself. 


146 


ADRIANS'' BRIGHT. 


“ While I was pinning on my featlier on the doorstep your man 
Friol was shaking himself into his livery. I was ready first. He 
grinned, 1 grinned, but he tlid not grin long. 1 slew liim witli my 
noble birth.” 

Little Flitters drew up her tiny figure and rubbed on a fresh 
dash of the Extract of Nobility with an irresistibly comic effect. 
{5he laughed and ejaculated, “ Gas-bags. What have you here?” she 
said, looking at the sketch. ” Quite a Venetian effect, as Clara 
Montalba sees them. You should put my featber floating down the 
stream. I once lost a fine feather out of my pocket in that way.”_ 

” It might as well have been spoiled by rain as lost entirely,” said 
Mrs, Bright, “ and you would spare 3 murself trouble.” 

” Oh, lam so used to taking my trimmings in and out. At church 
I alwa.YS wear my flowers on the congregation side. It is but plac- 
ing a ifln. I’m a woman ol business, you know. I am ‘ expedieuls- 
ful,’ as we say in Berlin.” 

Mrs. Bright did know it; under all Little Flitters’s volatility she 
had a practical vein that made her advice and “ expedientsful ” man- 
ner of acting extremely useful to her friends, and Tante had often 
made her a confidante. Mrs. Bright’s eldest daughter Saffo had 
not 3 ^et returned from Paris, though she was expected shortl}^ and 
Cinderella was not grown up enough for this sort of duet practice; 
Lrnda Fraser was of no use in such a character — ‘‘ could not act 
utility pans,” as Little Flitters put it; Linda was nothing but a 
heroine or prima donna. Mr. Bright was utterly incompetent! 
Tante resolved to confide her difficulties about Adrian to Little 
Flitters. 

” You are right in bringing your troubles to me,” and Daisy Flit- 
ters put on an ” expedientsful ” expression that was of itself most 
encouraging. 

Little Flitters looked like a brilliant, buzzing wasp in her gay, 

skimpy ” dress of black satin picked out with yellow linings to 
the flounces, which set off her tiny waist and rapid, darting action. 
The brilliant green feather added a point of color and moving liglit 
among the black shininess. The dress was not strictly tasteful, per- 
haps, unless after the manner of humming-birds and paroquets, who 
seldom assort their colors in deference to our fashions. Flitters was 
a little wasp in temper, too, always ready with her sting, eager for 
battle. She was a good little creature withal, and the pride of her 
family, its future glory and mainstay, in an ethical sense; fore- 
shadowing vrhat will one day elevate the Flitters family above their 
present grubby and groveling condition of life in a cheap street 
of tiny villas in a new, vulgar, and only half-built neighborhood. A 
street full of poetry of young life to those who can see it; and those 
who can look upon it with the eyes of hope and love may find much 
for admiration also, ^ut to some it represents decline and fall; a 
state of shabby gentility palsied by the weight of sorrow’s crown of 
sorrow, the memory of happier, grander, and more fashionable 
things; and of these are the Flitters family. Daisy, shortened, as 
all things had to be for Flitters, into Da.v, is their hope and pride. 
The family all work to keep Mother, that Mother may keep Day in 
the ])rofes8ional chrysalis state in London, or Germany, or Paris, 
at the various <x>nserYatories that are required to foster the possi- 


ADRIA.iq- r. RIGHT. 


147 

bility which lies in the fingers of a musician. The sons toil in clerk- 
ships and such like changeless drudgery; the daughters are govern- 
nesses, one resident, the other daily; and the mother cooks and 
pinches for the family, that they may between them offer up the t 
sacrifice of savings for the maintenance of the family idol, who 
represents all good things to be for them, who will in future lead 
them all to glory. IVliat if they live in a house no better than a 
bird-cage? Day has even now the entree to the great houses of the 
great. In right of her talents, she will one day be one of them; and 
they (the Flitters family) will see and possess all things through 
Daisy’s eyes. They, too, will live near the rose, and know all 
about roses. 

This is their faith. It is well to have faith, if only as a sauce to 
life’s dry crusts. This is the Flitters form of family pride. In 
some it is a pride in ancestry, a looking back; in them it is a look- 
ing on. Day Flitters is the star of their destiny, a star shooting 
upward who will raise her family in her ascent. She is so brilliant 
— a real diamond--but meanwhile she takes a long time polishing. r 
And Flitters has a smart, sharp word for all. Flitters is a crusty 
gem; a gem, the world, her world, is sure; crusty, the wide w'orld 
knows as surely. Only Flitters has her doubts, and, in moments 
of appreciation of greater things, is apt to call her doings “ gas- 
bags.” 

In truth, her talent is only smart and not yet brilliant, and Flit- 
ters is smart in dress and smart in tongue. She tells her family, as 
she entertains them in the way they love, on her return from a Ger- 
man conservatoire, with the narrative of her doughty deeds: 

” The other students tremble before the Herr Director, and are y 
astonished at the way I cheek him. They are horrified to see me 
stand up to him, he so big and bearded, 1 so little and so plucky. 

He scolds, and I cheek him, and cheek him so hard that he is forced ^ 

to laugh; and he makes me say it all over again slower. We talk 
English together. It improves him; and the stolid Germans gape t 

and stare. ” i 

Flitters had made him bring her back to London with him. The 
Herr Director was going away for the reason to gi ve a series of con- j' 

certs, and be a lion in London, ‘‘and he otters,” sa 3 "s Flitters, \ 

‘‘ coolly offers to hand me over to the second-best professor until he \ 

comes back to finish me off himself. He asks me, ‘ What do you 
say to that?’ I say, ‘ Why can’t you put off your concerts, and wait j'^' 
till you have finished me? Hold your series of concerts next year, j:! 
and — bring m.e out at them.’ ” 

This is her answer, in lieu of the thanks that students generally 
proffer to their masters’ seeming consideration for them. 

” But I was not going to remain and put up with Herr Second 'I, 

Best, so I followed the Director, and I mean to work him hard at ji 

polishing me down all the while he is in London.” And she is as 4 

good as her word. J 

Such was the quick, clever, sensible, shrewd, and shrewish little 
woman to wdiom Tante applied in her difficulty about furthering ij 

Adrian’s passion for Hermione Nugent. What should she do? 
What could she do? The Nugents would be in London for the t 

season, but they and Adrian might never meet. Their orbits were 


148 


ADRTAK BRIGHT. 


difterent. How could the wovldl}^ and, she must saj’- it, snobbish 
Mrs. Nugent ever be brought to see merit enough in one all soul and 
tire, and no dross, to give him her daughter, and forego all other 
and more attractive possibilities, 

“ Poor Adrian, no wonder he has katzen jammer,” thought the 
friendly S3nnpathizer. 

‘‘1 have it,” cried Flitters, after she had drawn out the story. 
“ Get them to meet chez Lady Glory Amedroz, and let Mrs. Nugent 
see what a great artist’s wife really is.” 

“ Perhaps the Nugents don’t know Lady Glorvina.” 

” I’ll contrive that she shall know' them.” A pause. “There’s 
one difficult^’^ though; Lady Glory says it’s no use to bring com- 
monplace people to her. Girls must be either very beautiful or very 
clever, or else she will have nothing to do with them. Is this girl 
pretty enough to carry oft her commonplace mother?” 

“ Hermione Nugent is very beautiful.” 

“ Can she do anything?” 

“ ISlie sings sweetly.” 

“ How much? Poor ballady, or decent opera, or only just -wood- 
notes wild?” 

“ Only just wood-notes wild,” said Mrs. Bright, laughing. 

“ And really pretty enough to carry it off?” asked Flitters, in a 
business-like manner. 

“ Pretty enough to carry off that and the mother loo,” answered 
Tante. 

“ Well, 1 wouldn’t lake many people’s word for either qualifica- 
tion, but 3 'ou are a judge, and I can trust you for cot letting me 
into pits and ditches. I’ll manage it for you, and you may go on 
with your picture at ease.” 

“ But what are your tactics? What can Lad}’- Glory do?” 

“ Everything. She is great, she is big, she is rich, she’s the rage, 
she’s an artbst’s wife, she has gas-bags, she csn cry Adrian up, she 
can set him among liie tip-top swells, and could keep him up if he 
couldn’t keep himself up there. (She keeps me up. Her world 
thinks I’m a genius. I know I’m just gas-bags.) She’ll do all this 
for me, and, if -Mrs. Nugent is the woman you say she is, she’ll 
jump at Adrian seated on the gas-bags. Position is everything. 
Look at Amedroz, R.A., himself; what was he once, when first he 
left his native Sark? Just as clever as he is now. Who cared a 
dump for him? But -vvdien he was dubbed, and when he married a 
peer’s daughter, of course he came to the front immediately.” 

Mrs. Bright laughed again. The expression “ w-hen he was 
dubbed ’’—for Sir Gilbert Amedroz was a knight— tickled her im- 
mensely. But she thought that to exalt Adrian and his profession 
in the eyes of the tuft-hunting -U’oman, -udiose soul loved a title 
above all other things, was really likely to further her match-mak- 
ing scheme. 

“ Only get the Nugents’ town address from Linda Fraser,” said 
Flitters, “ and leave the carrying out of the plan to me.” 

The effervescence of her shrewd good-humor filled the room all 
about her, as has been said of Flitters’s opposite, some great man. 
It is surprising how this very little woman acted as a tonic or 
change of air on every one who came within her radius. They 


ADRIAiq- BRIttHT. 149 

talked of other things, and Mrs. Bright went on with her drawing. 
She improvised charcoal by using sticks of firewood burned in a 
candle. 

“ It makes a lovely firm handle,” said Flitters. 

“ It was Adrian who put me up to it.” 

” What! the firewood dodge?” 

Mrs. Bright nodded. 

” I never kui w an artist who had less of the gas-bags about him 
that Adrian Bright,” said Flitters, in meditative maiden admiration, 
fancy free, however. ‘‘But, talking of nice firm handles, where’s 
my umbrella?” said Flitters, ” for f must be vanishing — a vanish- 
ing quantity.” 

” A vanishing point,” thought Mrs. Bright, ” for you are not big 
enough to be called a quantity.” 

” This umbrella was given me as a birthday present; it was sub- 
scribed for by the class.” 

Mrs. Bright admired it, as was expected of her. 

‘‘ It has already had two new handles and three new coverings.” 

Mrs. Bright wondered how much was left of the original um- 
brella. 

“ That is what you may call a good, strong, lasting article,” said 
Flitters, laughing as she departed. ” 1 believe this is a real gold 
plate that has my initials engraved on it. for I have rubbed it, and 
it does not smell of the brass a bit. It makes it the handier to 
pawn, eh?” 

So the gold plate in question, a quarter of an inch square, was 
really all that remained of the original umbrella. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

" Piu por dulzura que por fuerza.” 

It was May. The fashionable world, which crowded the Royal 
Academy, talked but of one thing. The artistic world, which goes 
to the Academy before the newspapers have settled everything safe- 
ly for the fashionable world to agree with, and before men get 
sheepy, and which, besides, has known the works of art long be- 
fore they get near the Academy, had talked of nothing else for a 
month past. It was the bas-relief of A(irian Bright, the ” Spirit of 
Religion.” In the opinion of every artist, lhis work ranked second 
only to his own. 

It checked the wide- mouthed multitude in their braying, and 
brought them back to a dim recognition of the possibility of renew- 
ing those one-time ages of faith, when men wrought, and wrote, 
and painted only what they believed in, what they loved. It was 
as if Giotto again spake. The work was more than skillful — it was 
modeled by tenderness in the spirit of worship. Love’s poesy in- 
vested it with a beauty beyond that of mere form. 

The artistic world played host to the fashionable world in the 
Royal Academy, and Jjady Glorvina Amedroz received both worlds 
in her own drawing-rooms on the evening of the first Tuesday in 
May. 

” What a day for costumes!” had been little Flilters’s first ex- 


150 




ADKIAX BRIGHT. 

clarnation on receiving her card of invitation. All the wonderful 
and fearful garments worn by ladies at the “ private view,” would 
either appcair or be outdone on this occasion. Flitters sighed as she 
looked out her own ‘‘ best frock;” an ‘‘old-gold color” satinet, 
made short and tight, as usual, with a black net sash embroidered 
with beetle’s wings; a gift from an admirer, now, alas, in Brazil, 
and perhaps unfaithful. It was not a very striking costume, she 
thought; nor was it, there being so little of it—" only a yard and a 
half round the skirt.” so Flitters declared— while as for length — 
why, lines on Little Flitters had neither length nor breadth. 

‘‘ I must contrive to shine by my own light,” said Flitters.^ ‘‘ 1 
dare say my inside is as good as other people’s, if my outside is not 
so fine. I shall contrive to turn myself inside out and eclipse many 
of them.” 

Mrs. Nugent and her fair daughter were likewise invited guests. 
Little Flitters had managed it easily, more easily than she expected. 

She had thought to diplomatize, and to have had to interest Lady 
Glory in a tale of true love which had just reached the second-vol- 
ume stage. 

” Adrian Bright’s angel!” Lady Glory had exclaimed. ‘‘ What, 
the model of the ‘ Spirit of Religion.’ Adrian Bright’s inspiration! 
Bring her to me. Day Flitters, and 1 will bless you.” 

‘‘ Most inspiration is gas-bags. This is Adrian Bright’s own par- 
ticular gas-bag.” 

But to know that this inspiration was a reality, a lady, and one 
who could be invited to a party, was enough for a lion huntress like 
a London party-giver. It was better than having Mrs. Langtry 
herself. 

Lady Glory hunted up a mutual friend, and achieved the placing 
of a card for the 6th. 

The fashionable world wedges itself for four mortal hours every 
evening on the ordinary party-giver’s staircase; but the artistic 
world knows better, and Lady Glory was no ordinary parly-giver. 

Sir Gilbert Amedroz, R. A., lives in one of those delightful houses 
on the Chelsea Embankment where the staircase forms part and 
parcel of the reception-rooms. This was a double staircase, making 
itself the furniture and feature of a great square hall; where guests 
move slowly in state up one side, and briskly, joyously, down to 
the buffet by the other: the whole stairway balustraded in white, 
and draped with cloaks and lightly flung curtains, in the manner of 
pictures by Paul Veronese. 

There was no crowding, only festive movement; with space for 
display of sumptuous or fanciful robes; and play of light and shade 
in varied color, and tall plants, shading recesses for talk, and small 
alcovfcd branch-staircases leading off to the further ends of the suite 
of reception-rooms; so that any one you wished to meet might be 
happened on fortuitously or intentionally, with all the charm of a 
surprise. Where, as Little Flitters, who does not mind committing 
herself, says, ‘‘we can sit in tiers (sfc, but oh! dreadful) on the 
stairs, and console ourselves with all the advantages of attitude and 
point of view without absolutely blocking up the gangway.” 

This agreeable confusion without confusion, as Madame de 
Sevigne calls it, lasted some three or four hours, hours of coucen- 


ADRIAX BRIGHT, 


151 


trated pleasure. Lady Glory, attired in fanciful, expensire, and 
charitable elegance, leaned on a golden tissue in form of an Indian 
shawl, thrown over the gallery railings at the head and junction of 
the great staircases; forming in herself a picture, and tbe center of 
a group of friends, and palm-trees, and liuge Indian vases. 

Her fanciful and charitable elegance was evolved from her moral 
consciousness of the fitness of the beauteous frolics of Nature for 
adaption to fashionable needs. 

The rich artist’s wife wore a dress of fiery crimson satin, over 
which was a robe of clear white net, worked in a pattern drawm 
from a frosted window pane, with long, fine, branching curves 
breaking into a filigree of infinite interlacements at the ends of the 
sweeping masses of frost form, filling up the interstices with an 
intricate guipure. This design alternated round the skirt with one 
still more elegant, adapted from the palm-trees that one also sees on 
frozen windows. The whole was so skillfully blended as to make 
it, in its style, a work of highest art, and quite sui generis as a 
robe, for the whole costume had a character of its own, unknown 
to the student of the fashion bcok. It was designed bj’- Lady Glory 
herself, some said, with the aid of her celebrated husband; though 
he laughed at its over-naturalism, as a travesty of the crimson sun 
glowing in morning glory through the air to our inner world of 
home. 

“ To awaken us to praise,” remonstrated her ladyship in mock 
indignation. Most likely it was originally one of those sportive 
frolics of a great artist, whose love of Nature breaks forth in all 
-manner of unexpected developments, playful, for all his veneration, 
with the idea carried out to practical use, by Lady Glorvina herself. 
tShe made people work under her guidance, and could afford to pay 
them well. This was one form of her charity; a luxury that her 
married life had given her, of which she had only dreamed when in 
her maiden home in the family of a poor Irish peer. 

Behind and around her, and wreathing high above her head, up 
the tall white columns supporting the corridor of the second story, 
trailed a fine plant of the lophospermum, with its vejvety leaves and 
pink powdery, trumpet fiowers. All the surroundings of Lady 
Glory were rich; and not only rich, but choice and tastefully 
arranged. 

Unlike the picturesque gondolier at the Brights, who received you 
with abundant gesture and flow of unknown words, here, even on 
ordinary days, there was a footman colored like a picture, as Day 
Flitters said, “ as much a picture as many of the single men in the 
Italian room in the National Gallery,” to shut the front door, with 
a man out of livery standing behind him to see that he did ii right. 
While on gala days there was an inner hall full of servants in dress 
livery of aesthetic hues (for Sir Gilbert Amedroz was unbound by 
family traditions as to color) awaiting commands in any direction, 
or bearing about Venetian glass on salvers, or flagons of fine form. 

The Briffhts were already in the music-room; but Adrian hov- 
ered near Lady Glory in hope of being first to see and secure the 
society of her whose image had been so mirrored in his heart, iliat 
the bas-relief, his famous work, was her very portrait. Lady Glory, 
whom Little Flitters had interested in this tale of true love, which 


ADRIA^r BRIGHT. 


152 

had run so ruffled, and Avitli such a force and fall, kept him near 
her, that Mrs, Nugent and all the world might hear.what the best 
part of the world thought of him, his genius, and his prospects. 

Mrs, and Miss Nugent were announced. 

“Good heavens, what a lovely girl!” said the delighted Lady 
Glory, w'ho adored beauty. And she received her new" acquaintance 
with a stately grace that impressed its power on lilrs. Nugent. She 
introduced some of her immediate followers and surroundings, and 
began a flow of talk with Hermione’s mother and an elderly peer of 
renow"n in the art-collecting continent, which is, as it w-ere, the 
Australia of the artistic world; a huge island apart, famous for its 
gold-fields, and dealing entirely in import and export, a commerce 
totally distinct from art. She presented Adrian to Miss Nugent in 
all apparent innocence, while she whispered his renow^n to the 
mother. 

“ 'You already know the family?” said Lady Glorvina, in a tone 
of well-feigned surprise. “ Fortunate lady, you know Mrs. Bright, 
the Mrs. Bright. She is here; she sometimes honors me w"ith a gift 
of her valuable time; and you know her — you are also to be envied. 
Adrian, take Mrs. Nugent and her daughter to your aunt that they 
may renew their pleasure. To talk with Mrs. Bright is to be really 
happy.” 

An Irishwoman always enters into a bit of fun. Lord at a- 

signal gave his arm to Mrs. Nugent, wdio to her speechless surprise 
was conveyed by an earl in search of a social celebrity whom she 
had not hitherto deemed worth a thought. — and even Adrian — well, 
the world had turned upside-down since they left Y'orkshire. 

“ As he is so celebrated, I may as well be civil to him,” thought 
Mrs. Nugent. 

And did they really expect Adrian Bright to be as great a man as 
Sir Gilbert Amedroz, who could even make a i)eer’s daughter envied 
as his wife? Here was food for reflection, if not for change of 
mind. 

An ex-royal personage with his train, and several cabinet minis- 
ters with tiieir surroundings, thronged the stairs, Adrian let the 
crowd sweep on, and easily lost himself with Hermione for a few 
moments in a little side room, Sir Gilbert’s very own snuggery, all 
painted round with recollections of his native Sark; the beaming 
blue waters and bright rugged cliffs all lightly flourished on the 
panels with his own hand, a hand that reveled in his power to bring 
the sunshine and beauty, and the fishermen of his native place, act- 
ually about him. He was a man of Sark, and here in this room he 
felt most at home, with his free seafaring people about him. 

Music echoed about the staircases, and hum of voices accompanied 
the rise and fall of the sweet sounds, faintest when those were sweet- 
est, with a pause at thrilling passages; and the beauty of society at 
its best lounged through the rooms and corridors, seeking new pleas- 
ures and not being disappointed. 

Little Flitters fluttered past tliem as, after a quarter of an hour of 
Eden, they turned in real quest of Mrs. Nugent. She nodded gayly 
to Adrian. 

“ Do you know that little lady?” he asked Hermione. 

“ No; who is shr ?” 


ADKIAI^ BRIGHT. 


153 


She is a star in course of formation. She is Little Flitters, soon 
to be the Great Flitters. We say Flitters as we say Cajsar, or Cath- 
erine of Kiissia. Hark! She is facing to play a duet with Herr 
GroIIenicht, that bearded bulk. What a Samson! He looks as if 
all his strength lay in his hair. Compare the strong thumb and the 
slender little finger, and there you have him and Little Flitters.” 

The piece was Mendelssohn’s Concerto in G. Flitters was ex- 
cusably nervous. A future was opening before her if she could seize 
the fleeting moment, the bursting wutve of fashion. But she was a 
practical woman, who had to begin to work for her living, and she 
'.vorked until the seams of her poor little dress, where the stuff was 
so scanty as only to leave the raw edge to sew in some places, gave 
out, first in fraying and then in fracture. 

“ He will drown her, surely,” said Hermione, as Herr GroIIenicht 
began a tremendous passage in the bass. But no. Flitters held her 
owm, and capped his bass with a shower of superlatives in the 
soprano. ‘‘One wonders how that tiny creature can keep up those 
octaves in the left liand,’^ w^hispered Hermione, to whom tlie music 
and pleasure had restored much of the former playful freedom of 
chat with Adrian, quite changed from the shy tenderness of their 
sentimental talk in the room of Sark. These athletic sports upon 
the piano were like a comedy to them. But not so to Flitters. Herr 
GroIIenicht scolded her for taking the first movement a pace and a 
half too fast. Poor little soul, her heart had beat faster still. It 
was life, death, and trial by jury to her. To him it was dail}^ jog- 
trot. He had passed through this stage twenty 5mars ago. A fat 
man, known to his generation as a poet, lounged up to' them, and 
his lean friend, a chatterbox and painter, shook Adrian by the hand. 

“ You are enjoying this?” said the fat man, with a wheeze that 
was meant for a poetic sigh. 

“Yes, I can listen to music without hardship,” said Adrian, 
lightly. 

‘‘ Without hardship!” exclaimed the painter, ‘‘ and you an artist 
in the round, who should be an artist all round.” 

‘‘ I am a sculptor, you know, and not a harmonious blacksmith.” 

The poet drawled on in the affected style of rhapsody he tried on 
society before he put it in print, cut up into lengths called poetry. 

‘‘ J\lusic is the most ethereal of the arts, and sculpture the most 
material.” 

‘‘ Except in the case of pianoforte athletics,” i)ut in Adrian. 

‘‘ Sculpture represents the finest, noblest thing in creation— Man, 
its master,” burst in the lean painter, speaking very rapidly, to make 
the most of a hearer. ‘‘ Sculpture shows his figure, the being, all 
round; painting itself shows only one aspect — but that the best.” 

‘‘ But there is no range wider than that of music,” said the poet. 

“ What calipers can measure the distance from Rubinstein to Great 
Paul?” 

“ Or the orchestra, from a bunch of keys upward to Berlioz’s 
* Faust,’ as given by Halle, said Flitters, who had joined them. 

‘‘ But poetry has as much powder as music,” said Adrian, wishing 
to be civil. ‘‘And wider rauae.” 

“ Yes, from Homer to Mr. JMealmouth’s last edition,” whispered 
Flitters. 


ADRIAN- BRIGHT. 


154 

“ AVe shall never feel the power of poetry until it is sung or re- 
cited,” said the painter, who had been “ doing ” a David with his 
lyre. 

” As we feel it at the ‘ Eisteddfod,’ ” said Adrian, lightly, flip- 
pantly. 

The fat poet gathered himself up for a victory. 

“ The printed word you look at, and understand; the spoken word 
you feel. It is like the music score that the musician reads, and 
knows it to be fine, Oy sight, and our hearing the same piece of 
music played. The music is there, and it is the self same, but with 
all the dilference of speech and dumbness. This is the difiterence 
that lies between the earlier and the later Beethoven, the Beethoven 
of joy and the Beethoven of science, counterpoint, and moral con- 
sciousness.” 

Hermione was impressed. She was not aw^are that he was pre- 
paring an ode to Beethoven for his new book, and that the leading- 
cause of his dragging the discourse round to music was to see if any 
one else had ideas on the subject worth borrowing. Neither Flitters 
nor Adrian playerl up to him. He had drawn a blank so far. 

” Gas-bags in blank verse,” muttered Flitters. 

‘‘Yet the later Beethoven goes to the heart deeper than in all the 
joyous melodies of his hopeful time,” said Adrian. ‘‘ The notes 
reiterate themselves so despairingly at times as if ijerforce of striking 
the deaf man must hear them.” 

The poet booked the thought, and turned away to do so un- 
perceived. 

‘‘I felt that as Herr Grolleoicht interpreted it,” said Hermione, 
shyly. ” The upper notes spoke like a consolation.” 

” Pretty loud, then,” said Flitters, who bad no notion of pathos 
in music, who hummed ‘‘ Hokey pokey, penny for two,” to keep 
some of the sweetest strains ever written ‘‘ up to time.” ‘‘ To work 
up those passages made me perspire like a douche bath.” 

Hermione w^as glad her mother did not hear this. Flitters went 
on unconsciously. 

‘‘ 1 went down daily in the kitchen and chopped the suet in the 
cause of art, to increase my muscular development. I thought of 
asking for a day’s work in your studio,,” she said to Adrian. ‘‘ I 
should like to have chopped away at yourPy^gmalion. 1 wmuld have 
left you the credit of it.” 

‘‘ Thank you,” said Adrian. 

” It would have been like ‘Pygmalion and Galatea,’ or some 
other play that is of questionable propriety,” said the poet, who was 
an immense favorite in ladies’ schools. 

‘‘ Mr. Bright is a bachelor,” said the painter, behind his hand. 

- ” Now, I’m not at all innocent— quite the reverse,” said Flitters, 
aloud, ” and yet these things never occur to me.” 

The poet turned away to seek fresh pasture, to speak poetically; 
to look after his business, to s})eak according to the nature of that 
poet; the painter stayed to look at Hermione. Flitters did not no- 
tice him. 

‘‘ Do look if I am all right,” said she to Hermione. ‘‘ 1 feel my- 
self just like a sofa with all my cording coming otf.” 


ADKIAJ^ BRIGHT. 155 

The sofa at her lodgings might have illustrated this. She held up 
the tunic of her dress. 

“ Playing that piece makes me come to pieces, quite like bioken 
Venetian blinds, showing gussets of light here anrt there.” 

Ilermione lauglied, and pinneil up the dress, llie dress was made 
of the least possible quantity of ‘‘ old gold ” satin, eked out with 
wdiite lining, as if ” old gold ” satin were worth its weight in new 
sovereigns. 

” Showing my high lights,” said Flitters, perceiving the painter 
had stayed, and was watching them. ” 1 shall get the name of Lit- 
tle Splitters, if I play that piece too often.” 

Adrian led Hermione to her mother. 

“Oh!” said Flitters, “then Mrs. Nugent is that lady in cream- 
cheese color, next door to the woman with the calceolaria eyes. 

The painter shook with laughter as ho recognized the baggy ap- 
pearance below the eyes, a form such as one sees in the calceolaria 
flower. Herr Grollenicht was leading a great lady to play, a Bul- 
garian princess with a name like a catastrophe. He carefully opened 
tlie piano for her to prevent her strewing her music all about it, and 
the young men from making a rattling vibration and rings upon it 
with their wine-glasses and empt}’- ice-plates. Flitters waited to 
hear the first few bars. 

” I can do bettor than that myself, so you may take me down to 
have some refreshment. 1 want it badly enough.” 

The painter jumped at the opportunity, while the princess 
tarantellaed all over the piano, and the audience looked delighted. 

“ What a pity I am not called Princess Flitterwisky! I should 
have a name then,” whispered the little pianist, as they moved away 
unobserved. 

All around her had Mrs. Nugent heard a buzz of praise of Adrian 
Bright. The old peer had spe^ily found Mrs. Bright and paid her 
his respectful homage, and he talked much of the outlook of art, 
and, of course, of Adrian. 

“It adds even to your glory to have such a nephew.” Mrs. 
Bright smiled. “ The whole Academy sees in him its future pres- 
ident.” 

“ May Adrian long be heir-apparent,” said Mrs. Bright. 

And Hermione was with the hero of the hour. Mrs. Nugent’s re- 
flections were of the strangest and most confused kind. 

Flitters, refreshed, wms about to sins. She made no resistance, 
no fuss; she acted, according to programme, in a business-like 
manner. This w'as to be the tour de force of the evening. A great 
man was there, a famous musician and composer, father of all play- 
ers on the harmonium. He had, in fact, created the instrument. 
It seemed as if he could only plaj'’ on one instrument of the sort, as 
he had his own musical-box, as heavy as an elephant, carried about 
with him wherever he performed, ami it was part of the entertain- 
ment to let this fact and the cost of this remarkable organ be buzzed 
about the room before he began to play, and everybody looked at 
it with the deepest interest.' There was this great man; then a 
wild-haired genius shouldered his violin; another seated himself on 
a high music-stool, prepared to tear up handfuls of pianoforte at a 
time; by him stool little Flitters open-mouthed, prepared to sing. 


AUKIAJS" BRIGHT, 


156 

Three persons turned up their coat-cutfs, to turn over the leaves. 
Flitters held lier own fourth copy well down, not to veil her voice., 

The piece was Gounod’s “ Ave Maria ” on Bach’s prelude. 

Flitters’s voice in song was thin as a racehorse and squeaky as her 
voice in sneech; but she had been highly trained as a racehorse — 
ay, as a Derby runner— and she was in good form. 

'Up went her head, her eyes, her notes. The harmonium urged, 
the fiddle shrieked, the piano rattled; higher and higher went P!it- 
ters’s squeaky voice, which seemed sopranissimo even from D flat 
in the middle, bravely on and up. Excelsior! A shuddering took 
the audience as the higher A shrilled out in a tiny, but plucky and 
unvanquished, squeal; and all who know anything of music re- 
membered that there was B to follow. Courage, Flitters. Up she- 
goes. That upper B is the climax of the vast arpeggio of the four 
instruments, tough strings, stout wind, for Flitters hitherto has held 
her own atop of all, except at times that exasperating violin. Boom 
went the double-bass of the harmonium; thrash the long arpeggio 
of the piano from lowest G to highest treble; shriek went the long, 
culminating flourish of the violin, and Flitters gave the B with a 
long brealii and— cracked upon it. Bravely she took up the note 
again in one heroic effort, her once red face now pale wdth exertion 
and grimly set for achievement. Shriek went the B high up in the 
sharps, it was almost turned into C with the effort, and the piece 
was over. A storm of applause followed the victory, and Flitters 
retired among the audience half-ashamed of her triumph. 

“ Gas-bags,” she said, deprecatingly, to Adrian. “ It isn’t really 
good, that performance, it is only noisy and fussy. A piece to look 
at rather than to hear.” 

llerrnione Nugent made room for her by her side. 

“ How difficnlt it must be to sing against so many loud instru- 
ments,” slie remarked. 

” And to get up to such high notes too,” said her neighbor on 
the other side. 

“It is easy enough to get on to the high notes,” said Flitters. 
” The difficulty is to get off again creditably, and go down the scale 
afterward.” 

“ Do you know we were a semitone out on the upper B?” said 
the violinist, coming up to Flitters. 

‘‘ It was a good Isrge semitone.” said the latter, good-humoredly. 

The harmonium was orchestrating a fine symphony. It really 
was fine, as the master gave out effects such as one never hears in 
church or on school-room harmoniums, which seem broken-winded,. 
Tom-Thumb organs, with no music, but only a wheezy harshness,, 
left in their bellows. After this a lady in a curious undress, sup- 
posed to represent aesthetic views, a gold embroidered sort of dress- 
ing-jacket, disheveled hair, and a necklace, looking as if she had 
tumlDled up rather than got herself up, was being coaxed to sing, 

” Ah, no, I cannot,” moaned she, ” 1 have no voice to-night.” 

She did, indeed, look pale and hollow-cheeked enough for real 
illness. She ought to have gone back to bed. 

” Ah, you must sing, it is expected of you. Here is a song just 
suited to your drooping condition.” 

The long-haired accompanist held up a mournful ballad modu- 


ADIilAN BRIGHT. 


157 

lating through most of the minor keys, new and very fashionatde, 
all about the grave, one’s own and other people’s. The damsel 
rose, and stood in the altitude of a drooping lily, her head hanging 
deeply and gracefully enough over one shoulder, and gave vent to a 
deep contralto groan on the interjection Ah! ending it so pian- 
issimo that the audience did not know whether she had anything 
more to sing oi not. The accompanist did a little solo business. 
Her hands clasped themselves about a lyre-sliaped music-stand to 
sustain her sinking form. Thus supported she Wfvs able lo utter, in 
a string of hollow moans, “ I would that I were dead, 1 woo — o — 
od that I were dead;” but the listeners could not catch the rest of 
the words of that favorite song, and, at the close of the first verse, 
her voice died away and she could utter no more, but sank into a 
chair, and called up all the Japanese fans in the room to play upon 
her. This had a fine effect. 

‘‘ How sweet!” sighed the audience. “ How infinitely touching!” 

” Is it not like Undine dissolved into a fountainV” murmured a 
red-haired young enthusiast 

Lady Glory was fortunate with her musicians. The attitude was 
perfect. Never was such finished affectation seen at a musical 
party before. 

“ Gas bags,” muttered Flitters. “ t play like a fountain, if you 
like, and can go on forever, but she opens her mouth like a gar- 
goyle and pours forth groans,” she whispered to Heririoue. ” I 
don’t like those growling contraltos any better than my own wdiy 
little pipe,” said this candid, self-recognizing Flitters. ”1 like a 
sumptuous, velvety Italian contralto, where the full rich voice 
comes out like a globule; but I hate the hollow-groans school.” 

Flowers were offered to Undine to restore her, and shawls to 
warm her, and fans and refreshing drinks to cool her. She grace- 
fully took one forced strawberry, and held it in an attitude of 
adoration. 

As she was a very plain girl this kind of thing could not endure 
forever, so the straits opened and Lady Glory came sailing to the 
spot, looking like the gorgeous ship of Ulysses in Turner’s picture, 
cleaving aside the foam of color with her crimson splendor. 

” I am glad she is better,” said she, in her loud, cheery voice; 
“but I suppose she is not equal to finishing her pretty song.” 
Lady Glory was really an artist in feeling and education. She iiad 
no patience with the die-away school, and did not love the lanky, 
lantern-jawed style of beauty. ” We must have something to cheer 
the poor darling up— a glass of sherry, and then she shall have a 
lively song sung to her. Who can sing? 1 won’t ask you, Day 
Flitters, you have only been too good in exerting yourself so splen- 
didly for us.” 

Flitters was rising, but not to sing, only to whisper to Lady 
Glory. 

” Ask Miss Nugent to sing, you will not repent it.” And Her- 
niione wuis pressed on all sides for a song. 

” My singing is such a poor performance,” said she, shrinkingly, 
looking at the many professors in tiie room. But the professors one 
and all. added their entreaties. This young girl was so very beauti- 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


158 

ful, and so utterly unprofessional, that she had a charm for all ig 
the very artlessness of her appearance. 

“ Sing us one of the sweet things you used to sing at Whitby, and 
get it over,” said Adrian, softly, encouraging her very evident 
timidity. 

” I dare say you can remember something to sing to Lady Glor* 
vina,” said Mrs. Nugent, and Hermione went to the piano. 

“ 1 will accompany you,” said Herr Grollenicht; and they soon 
selected something, a new song, all about echoes and nightingales, 
that was just then fashionable, and which Hermione had practiced 
lately. 

Her clear, sweet voice, so purely soprano without an effort on 
the high notes, struck rapture to the listeners. Flitters mentally 
forswore the high B for herself for evermore. 

” This is not gas-bags,” said Flitters; ” this is duck’s eggs, and 
chicken and ham.” 

Tnere was little art in Hermione’s singing; but she had a natu- 
rally brilliant, flexible voice, a deep love of music, and a careful, 
though commonplace, musical education. The voice was still not 
fully trained, but its own liquid sweetness left nothing to desire on 
first hearing; and then the shake was brilliant and well-practiced, 
easy and flexible as a canary-bird’s trill. To most of the hearers it 
sounded heavenly; even the professors were charmed with tlie ex- 
quisite natural gift. They crowded in coogratulation round Mrs. 
Nugent, who looked gratified, and Lady Glory was triumphant. 

Her musical party was a success. It had features. She carried 
off Hermione to make a tour of the rooms under her wing. The 
young girl’s pure white dress harmonized as perfectly with her own 
dazzling splendor as soft, fresh fallen snow beside the crystals of 
the frost. Hermione’s fair hair wms supported by a pearl comb in 
a way that showed the classical style of her beauty to perfection. 

” Yes, you may follow,” said Lady Glory to Adrian; and after 
an intoxicating progress amid the homage of her court the hostess 
delivered Hermione to Adrian’s care to lead her back to her 
mother. 

The crowd was very dense, but there was no occasion for any 
desperate hurry in their return, so they did not superfluously force 
a passage. 

‘‘ How delicious your singing is,” began Adrian, as they stood 
by a window in a star-lighted alcove, further brightened by the 
out-door lamps, and shadowed by plants. 

“ 1 am so glad it is over. I was so horribly nervous. It seemed 
so audacious of me to sing before all those good judges.” 

” The best judges are generally the kindest,” said' Adrian. 

They stood together looking out on the starlight, playing on the 
broad river as it flows by Chelsea Embankment, and they watched 
the ripples, and the quivering of the low-growing foliage on the Bat- 
tersea shore. 

“ What a lovely skyful of stars!” said Hermione. ” i like to see 
a whole set of stars like this; such a brilliant society gathered above 
us, and to recognize the Pleiades, and Jupiter, and Saturn. One 
likes to have a few friends up there.” 


ADTIIAX BRIGHT. 159 

“ You seem to have a good many interesting acquaintances up 
there,” laughed Adrian, 

Oh, no, my circ e is very select. I just know one or two by 
sight, Orion and the Great Bear, nobody else, and 1 was only intro- 
duced to them by the pattern on the globe.” 

” So the globes have been of use to somebody. I always won- 
dered the science was not called ‘ the uselessness of the globes,’ ” 

The beauty and calmness of the night drew them out of their 
childish playfulness of talk, which was only a light garment flung 
over their deeper feeling; the intense joy of being once more to- 
gether, made more joyful by an unspoken hope that the events of 
this night had smootlie'd some of the obstacles to their love. Flit- 
ters’s worldly wisdom, her shrewdness, had indeed discovered a 
road to the fulfillment of their heart’s desire. Plermione knew 
nothing of this, but Adrian’s quick wit divined much of the diplo- 
macy that had been used, and he had furthered it with all his 
might. This party was all-momentous for them. 

Mrs. Nugent dimlj recognized that there were other standards of 
rank than those she knew, other channels of fortune than trade, or 
heritage, or luck. These two stood silent, in a golden silence more 
precious than any silvern speech, wlule the stars in their courses 
shone upon their love and blessed it. The w’hirl of the party went 
on, and Adrian and Plermione still stood together arm-in-arm. 

” We must go back to mamma,” said Hermione at length. “P 
had really forgotten the time.” 

” Yes, we will go back to mamma, if I may ask her to give you 
tome.” 

His tone w^as very eloquent; yet his face spoke more pleadingly 
than his wmrds, Plis voice, his manner, told the earnestness of his 
love, and the surroundings of the hour rendered it irresistible; the 
starlight spoke with him, the soft ripple of the water accompanied 
his speech. She drooped her head shyly; he uttered sweet words 
and vow^s of love. Oh, golden night! Tier drooping head was an- 
swer enough for him, though he pleaded for more and more. They 
stood in this spangled shadow quite alone — alone as the pair in Par- 
adise — while the winged minutes flew past them, and the party 
whirled on outside. 

” And now we will go back to mamma.” His tone was triumph- 
ant. Pie had won so far, and was bound to win entirely. His 
splendid head was that of a conqueror— ay, of Apollo, who has let 
fly his victorious shaft. 

Those moments w^ere as liquid jewels— oh, so dazzlingly precious! 
—and yet no kiss had passed, only a hand-clasp had given the ear- 
nest ot an immeasurable future. 

They turned at last. Shadowed upon the light-tinted W'all of the 
alcove was a silhouette of foliage of the exotics and light trailing 
plants that filled and wreathed the second mullioned window, adjoin- 
ing the one near which they had stood. The bright lamp in the 
street immediately below cast the shadows of all this on the pale 
wall, like a rich but delicate tracery of wrought iron. It was very 
precious. The lovers had no eyes for it except those of an instinct- 
ive joy in beauty. It was in the fitness of things that the sur- 
roundings of their happiness should be exquisite. But they had 


160 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


too much rapture in their love — a rapture all their o'wn— to heed the 
details of trifles that make up the sum of perfectiou. This lovely 
effect of civilization working upon Nature remained unnoticed, it 
was left to cheer the hungry eyes of those who are not filled lo 
satiety with excess of joy. What is one wayside flower to the owner 
of lordly Chatsworth? Yet it is all the world in its comfort to a 
parched and lonely wandered on the dusty road. 

Meanwhile, a great singer from the Papal choir had been singing 
in his w’onderful bass, and people had been talking of the sadness 
of his exile from the land of song, as he aided the clumsy efforts of 
his English tongue by the fervid vivacity of his Italian eyes. 

“ Why did he leave Rome?” asked some, who could not compre- 
hend his story. 

“ Oh, 1 heard he had turned Protestant, or teetotaler, or some- 
fhina', and was obliged to go,” said Flitters. 

Oiher and more romantic tales were circulating of his bravery or 
his martyrdom, only the men declined to believb in his battles; they 
thought money was at the bottom of his true history. 

” Oh, here she is!” ” Here is Miss Nugent!” ” We want to hear 
her sing again.” 

Many were the welcomes which greeted Hermione’s reappearance 
in the music-room. The girl looked more beautiful than ever. If 
ever hapi)iness bloomed upon a countenance, it was on hers. Many 
casual observers took the expression for gratified vanity; the keener- 
sighted recognized a transfiguration. More than one artist took a 
surreptitious sketch. This time she did not hesitate to sing. She 
was no longer nervous; she wanted an outlet for expression of the 
exliilarating bliss that filled her being, throbbed in her quickened 
pulses. 

In one of those rare days of full-fledged feeling that occur in the 
life of genius, even latent genius like Hermione’s. there had sprung 
to her song and to her pen some words in verse. She had sung them 
to the brilliant tune of Chopin’s Fifth Mazurka. The trills had 
sweetened the strain in their lark-like uprising, her whole being had 
thrown itself into melody; and to-night she felt as if this were the 
song that she longed to pour forth, all heedless of the brilliant array 
of listeners. She felt the presence of only one, and even him she 
did not see, so vividly did the whirl of confused excitement cast her 
into ecstasy. She was full of the god. 

“ Will you play Chopin’s Fifth Mazurka for me?” said she boldly 
to Herr Grollenicht. Wonderingly the great musician began the 
first few bars in brilliant touch and in its original ke 3 \ Hermione's 
delicious voice followed it up in her own light, airy words with all 
its sparkling trills of joy; no skylark ever knew such rapture as her 
soul knew now! The world heard her, saw her, wonderingly; the 
saloon was crowded as she warbled on. The veiy musicians held 
their breath, enchanted. Flitters recognized that the ten j^ears of 
her hard-working musical apprenticeship were as naught beside such 
an utterance as tliis; the aesthetic girl w^oke ud under this assertion 
of joy in all its living beauty, and^for that moment forgot her idol- 
atry of decay and death. All were spell-bound, Mrs. Nugent utterly 
amazed, as a parrot who has hatched a Bird of Paradise; Adrian — 


ADRIA.If BRIGHT. 161 

ah! who can feel with Adrian, as he glories in the discovery of a 
genius sister to his own. 

“ Another Sappho/’ huninied the audience. 

Mrs. Bright took her in her arms and kissed her with what feii; 
like a mother’s welcoraing. 

“ The child has irenius,” murmured the professors, "who sus- 
pended their admiration of her beauty in amazement at her talents. 

“ 1 once heard Pauline Viardot sing that very thing to Polish 
words.” said Herr Grollenicht, in his own tongue. “1 never 
thouglit to hear it outdone by an English girl. She must be of oiv 
race, or else a Magyar, or a Slav.” He stroked his beard. ” I 
cannot make it out.” 

“Oh! gifted one,” said Lady Glory, taking her again and away 
■from kindly Mrs, Bright. “ Prepare a wreath, we must crown ou. 
lovely guest.” 

“ Bring crowns for Miss Kugent,” was the word. 

Araedroz, R. A., tore down the velvet lophospermun\ and twineh; 
U with starry white clematis and passion -tio we rs (the forced tac- 
i3onia), and placed the garland on Ilermione’s head. 

“ A loving-cup in her honor,” shouted he and the artists all, a-' 
they wreathed a bowl likewise with flowers. But l\lrs. Nugen: 
woke up lo the impossibility of suffering a demonstration in honoi' 
of her child, and, beckoning, drew her away not unwillingly from 
her adorers, that they might find their carriage. 

W^ere these the ways of artists and of peers? The demonstration 
was very flattering, no doubt, even delightful, but — was it strictly 
proper? At all events, the scene must not be prolonged, it wa ^ 
somewhat too— too — what should she say?— well, too cla.ssical. Sh * 
must thank Lady Glorvina for a most charming evening, and— 
their carriage was waiting. Hermione went home lo dream happy, 
Blissful dreams, and Adrian to hum her song, to try lo recall tin* 
words which she had admitted to him were her own, and to mode: 
in clay a bust of Hermione. as Sappho, crowned with passion-flow- 
ers, and in act as if to sing. 

He never left off his delicious toil till morning light hadstrengtli 
eued into noon; then he flung himself on his divan, and dreamed of 
rapture and Hermione. 

And what of her? She is the same lovely girl whose sweet voice 
Adrian chased through the three Hidings of Yorkshire, the samc 
iie has dreamed of ever since, fl'o him she seems still tlie Psyche- 
form before she has breathed love and blushed into life. But she i ^ 
a woman now, and no more the laughing child of St. Hilda V 
Abbey 

Sadness, or, rather, loss of joy, had added a refinement even tf> 
lier beauty; always clothed witli an outward fairness almost angelic, 
it now partook of the spiritual nature of angels. Genius had grown 
in her; still latent to the friends who knew her, not best, but most 
intimately; and, now that a great love had dawned about her, she 
unveiled her head from the sorrow that had been laid upon her, and 
which she had borne with such gentle patience that others never 
•felt saddened by its shadow; a)id light as from heaven illumined 
her, and reflected light from the warm earth glowed upward to her 
-^.ace. 


162 


ADKIAK BRIGHT. 



CHAPTER XXIV. 

“ Who ever strove 

To show her merit, that did miss her love’”' 

All's Well thaf Ends Weii.. 


Adrian rushed to Mrs. Nugent’s house early in the afternoon of 
‘he day following Lady Glory’s party. The ladies vTcre out—thali 
Is, Mrs. Nugent was disinclined to receive eompanjr. He retired 
discomfited. A scrap of pasteboard, inscribed, “ Adrian P»i ight„ 
Parthenon Club,’’ remained as the symbol of a dreadful disappoint- 
ment. 

But Flitters was right in her reading of human nature. The 
aspect of Sir Gilbert Ainedroz, R.A., and his wealth •worked like a 
charm. The honor shown to Adrian by Lady Glory and her titled 
and fashionable friends was not without its due effect on Mrs, 
Mugent’s feelings. The honor reflected itself as far even as Mrs,, 
Bright, so that when the latter lady called upon lier, though she 
was out truly this time, Mrs. Nugent disposed herself to be gracious^ 
and early and civilly returned the visit. 

]\Ir3. and jMiss Nugent were announced in 'Wel1>eek Street, and 
Cinderella and her father entertained them while Mns. Bright was 
nldcing her painting safely to dry. Little Flitters was in the house> 
talking over the party, and ’Rella wanted her to come and help her 
through tile ordeal of talking to the Nugents. 

“ No, I have done my part; I should only spoil my work if 1 went 
further. I prefer to leave it sketchy, for others to fill in. I know 
my role. My way of speech would frighten Mrs. Nugent; 1 might 
say ‘ gas-bags ’ by accident, out of pure feeling.” 

So she fled. As it was, Mrs Nugent was veiy much astonished 
at the ways of the family. Friol, who had been standing as a model 
to Mrs. Briglit, with a picturesque drapery worn over a sort of gab- 
ardine, whisked off the upper garment, which was perhaps a little 
showy for his position, and Rosetta vanished with the drapery, as,., 
when the door opened, slie was rushing np-stairs with some fiat 
irons. Friol, taken aback in his hurry, was beirinning his set for- 
.(Tiula, ‘‘ Comb again at seven o’clock,” when he recollected himself,, 
drew himself up to his fine attitude, as in Mrs. Bright’s picture, and 
took the ladies' cards up-stairs. 

” Take the cards to mamma, Friol,” said Cinderella, eagerly,, 
fearful of being left long alone with strangers. 

Yez. I shall, meess,” said Friol. 

Mr Bright had no doubt of his powers of entertaining ladies. 
Rearing tliat they were from Yorkshire, the land of horse fairs, be- 
took it for granted that Mrs. Nugent must be interested in the bone 
formation of horses, and could also tell him from her persona! 
knowledge the effect of the use of oatmeal on the osseous framework 
of men. This naturally led to his system of feeding fowls, and his 
experiments in view for the ” Derby Runner.’" He sent Cinderella, 
for some tins of his phosphates, and explained his plan of burning 
all bones, and table and vegetable refuse; carefully collecting the 



ADRIAN BRIGHT. 




163 


f 


various sorts of ashes for the use of the poultry, or the nourishment 
•of Cinderella’s sunflowers; reserving the choicest varieties for occult 
and special purposes. Mrs. Nugent reluctantly took one tin ot 
finely sifted ashes with her pale kid glove, looked at it closely, feel- 
ing somewhat mystified, yet rather impressed, at hearing its con- 
tents spoken of in scientific terms as phosphates and hypophos- 
phites, or carbonized potassse of some sort; the subtile distinction!; 
being important and very clear to every one but herself. Mi . Bright 
talked like the pamphlets one buys at the South Kensington and 
Bethnal Green museums. 

“ Papa burns all his rubbish in the dining-room,” said Cinderella, 
’v^^ho had already made easy conversation with Hermione. “ Ou'. 
house in winter smells like a perpetual bonfire with. the phosphates, 
the ‘ pospits,’ as my little brother calls them. From the fifth o? 
November onward it smells of gunpowder treason. You should 
hear what the servants say when the master fills the oven with 
bones to carbonize fi)r the fowls. When we have riba of beef, papa 
always buys a double allowance ot bones for hisT^hosphate collec- 
tion.” 

Hermione, in spite of herself and of the fun Cinderella made oi 
the experiments, could not help listening to a disquisition on mar 
riage into which Mr. Bright and her mother had drifted, having 
done for the present with the tins of calcined etceteras. Mr. Brighi, 
was saying, 

‘"Men would then be glad enough to marry for economy’s sake.” 

” For economy 1” said Mrs. Nuy^eut. 

Yes, of course; a wife is as cheap to keep as a servant — ” 

” What a horrible man,” thought Mrs. Nugent. 

Hermione was interest^ in this droll man, and wanted to hear 
Slim elucidate bis theories. 

” —and, while man is the helpless being be is, he must he waited 
•upon. For you will admit, ma'am, that he is the most helpless of 
the vertebrata,” 

” It is an act of charity to succor the helpless,” said Hermione. 

” That is the ultimate object of woman’s amiable nature,” said 
Jos, turning to her. “ Providence adapts so perfectly the beautiful 
machine to its uses.” 

” Machine!” ejaculated the horror-stricken Mrs. Nugent. 

” Yes, Bo, as we agreed, ma’am, it is a wise economy in a man 
to mairy— with a qualification attached.” 

‘‘The wife must have the qualification, I suppose,” said Her- 
mione, smiling. 

‘‘ There aie two perhaps equal qualifications, sweet young lady.” 

‘‘ They are beauty and fortune, I presume,” said Mrs. Nuirent. 

‘‘By no means, ma’am. Beauty is a gift, a gift too noble for 
many to expect; when found it outweighs all else, and the gifts of 
the gods are measured by troy w^eiglil, as other jewels are. The 
2 iecessaries of life are common to all, if we will. Beauty is the 
crown of luxury, and we cannot all be crowned. The qualifications 
in a good v/ife are the results of her own good work. Good health 
and activity are the qualifications. These are a fortune, a visibly 
growing fortune, turning its interest day by day— living wealth, 
ina’am. But I v/ae wrong in saying there are two qualifications. 


164 


ADRIAN’ BRIGHT. 


There is but one, activity, for this one makes the other. Ah, if all 
men could get active, sensible wives, like mine, there woiild be na 
single women, since no man could afford to be a bachelor.” 

This view of the case amused Hermioiie. 

“ What should 1 be without Lucinda? Every comfort, bodily, 
or mental, I owe to her. She makes everything go well, and I go 
<n peace to my laboratory, only too happy in knowing that every- 
thing will go w’ell in my family life.” 

Cinderella knew that -when once her father got upon this topic, 
’.here was no getting him off again. 

“ Should you like to come and see my sunflowers?” she asked 
Termionc; ” and how the phosphates agree with tliem?” 

” I should like to see them very much,” said Hermione. ” Miss^ 
bright is going to show^ me her sunflowers, mamma, if you do not- 
aiind my going.” 

Mrs. Nugent did not object, but, she did not relish the prospect 
".f a long dialogue with Mr. Bright.. Fortunately, Mrs. Bright 
ippeared. 

She asked for Hermione, and was told she had been taken to see 
'he sunflowers and the poultry. Mrs. Bright smiled, but said noth- 
ng. It occurred to her that Cinderella would very probably take 
lermione to Adrian’s studio at the same time, which would be a 
pleasanter surprise to Hermione than to Mrs. Nugent. 

The conversation drove through the dr^^ dust of science, skirted the 
sandbanks of social economy, and floated off upon the School Board, 
idrs. Bright and Mrs. Nugent had both brought up their children as 
iiey pleased, as most ladies do, with different or indifferent results. 
Having had troubles of her own, as Cinderella had not always been 
sixteen, and Saffo, the eldest daughter, being away, counted for 
nothing in the housekeeping, Mrs. Bright always took the part of 
the parents in educational questions. 

“ Now, see here,” said the eager Mrs. Bright, “ the Board doesn ’fc 
interfere with me, but a poor, struggling woman is pounced upon 
ind deprived of the natural help wdiich Irer children ow’e her, and 
am give her from six to sixteen. She has all the burden of the- 
: tables, and her girls go off or out to other services, and have never 
iielped her at all, nor learned life at all, neither ethical nor prac- 
tical, and the children, who have never been helpful, grow up en- 
tirely helpless.” 

” That just bears out what we were saying about the helplessness 
of man,” said Mr. Bright, turning to Mrs. Nugent. 

“When Mr. Bright declared man the most helpless of vertebrate 
animals he was not speaking without book. He had once been the 
opposite of his wife in social politics, before his experience with his 
increasing family had rendered him a wiser man, and he became a 
candidate for the post of inspector of schools, daring his canvassing 
for which he undid almost all his wife had done for him by showing 
iumself so theorizing and unpractical as to cause the authorities to 
ilread the rapid advances of liis views. His duties brought him to 
the examination of a class expected to be perfect in the making of 
flannel petticoats. There were a hundred and fifty ehildreu (girls, 
with a hundred and fifty pairs of scissors, engaged in si)oiliug four- 
hundred and fifty yards of tcupeimy flannel— paid tor by the rate- 


ADKIAN’ BRIGHT. 165 

payers. Poor, forlorn, helpless man! He must not seem not to 
know the way to cut out flsinnel petticoats. “Oh! if my wife were 
here!” But he must sit it out, so he takes up a few pieces of flan- 
nel, looks wise, and says, 

“ Now here is a piece that must be sewn, then clap this piece on 
the back of it, and use the rest for flannel bandases. The time is 
up,” said he, relieved, and lookin<? at his watch.' “ I shall lay a 
fair report before the board, and doubtless you will get the govern- 
ment grant.” 

“ 1 am much obliged to you, sir, 1 am sure,” said the courtesyiug 
mist ress. 

Some of the elder girls looked sly. A tongue was thrust into a 
cheek here and there, and the indecent exhinition called “ pulling 
a snook ” went on in one corner. Mr. Bright’s mariyrdom for 
the day w^as over, and he was a converted and disenchanted man. 
No, he was not wrong in letting his wife manage things for him. 

Mrs. Bright’s shrewdness w'as not at fault when she thought that 
Adrian would make the best of this opnortunity of talking with 
Hermione N ugent. 

He was standing at the open door of his studio as the two girls 
came out. He looked wmnderfully handsome as he stood full ia 
the rays of the afternoon sunshine, with his white sculptor’s blousej 
and si purple velvet cap, shaped something like a priest’s baretta. 
More than the sunshine lighted his face as he saw" Hermione; and 
she — w"ell, she looked more like an opening rose than ever. They 
moved toward the sunflowers, which w-ere mere seedlings as yet, 
though Hermione had somehow gathered from Mr. Bright’s talk of 
their wonderful growth under their treatment by his phosphates 
that they were at least twice as big as the glorious Clytie that 
beams in cottage gardens in the country. But they answered all 
the purpose of prize specimens to those who lived by admiration, 
hope, and loye, as did our young couple, according to Mrs. Bright’s 
valuable prescription, and Cinderella discreetly left them to vent 
their enthusiasm over the splendor of the sunflowers, while she ab- 
sorbed herself in giving gooseberries to the fowls. 

The sunflowers exhausted, Adrian tcok Hermione into his studio, 
where she must have had her enthusiasm still more excited, Cin- 
derella thought, by the beautiful expression in her face when they 
came out to see if Cinderella had done feeding the poultry. By and 
by it occurred to Hermione ihat her mother would be waiting for 
her, so they went in, Adrian following directly he had slipped off 
his sculptor’s costume. 

Mrs. Nugent was evidently tired of Mr. Bright’s scientific talk 
and the stories of the School Board, and she had been greatly 
shocked at seeing Friol. w"ho really looked more like a gondolier 
than a footman, bring up tea, with a plate of bread-nnd butter cut 
an inch thick. Mrs. Bright did not offer this substantial food to 
Mrs. Nugent, but only lea with slices of lemon in it, because the 
milkman was not yet come;- and Cinderella brought a basket of 
cakes of her own making, which were pretty and uncommon. 

“ Friol taught me how to make them— he is a splendid pastry- 
cook,” she told Hermione. “ He told me to put pepper on themj, 
meaning that I was to put them in paper cases.” 


ADlilAX BRIGHT. 


166 

So Cinderella entertained liermione wiiile Adrian was ingratiating 
iiimself with Mrs. Nugent, and Mrs. Bright helped him to the 
best of her power. 

A day was fixed for the Nug^^nts to dine in Welbeck Street (Mrs. 
Bright insisted on fixing it now, so as nol'to leave Mrs, Nugent an 
opening for refusal), and the visitors soon took their leave. 

“ How foolish that man is about his wife!” said Mrs. Nugent to 
her daughter, when they had driven off; ” and yet what an absurdly 
bad manager she is!” 

Hermione though it was quite poetical to see how she was loved, 
and even Mrs. Nugent was inwardly conscious that her husband 
had never worshiped her like that. 

They went next day to call on Lady Glory Amedroz, 

In spite of Little Flitters’s well-laid plans, Mr. Bright, in his un- 
lucky way, had nearly spoiled all when he showed Mrs. Nugent 
those tins full of phosphates. If she had not been so mystified, she 
would have been horrified and offended. She mentioned the sub- 
ject and her disgust to Lady Glorvina. Lady Glory quickly 
mended the error by lauding Mr. Briglit’s great science, and she 
told a parallel story of herself and an eminent i)rofe8Sor, a highly 
scientific man, who gave her three great lettuces and a parcel of 
bone manure to carry away. She tlid not mention that this was also 
Mr. Bright. 

Lady Glory did not fail to follow up closely the good impression 
she had made. 

“ 1 feci like a conspirator,” said she to Adrian, when she invited 
him to be at her house on the day she expected IMrs. Nugent to call 
after her party, and she managed for her favorite a long rmd de facto 
private talk with his beloved, while IMrs, Nugent was talked to by a 
Lord Somebody. Adrian called again on Mrs. Nugent and used 
iiis persuasive tongue to some purpose. He was accepted this time. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

“ Every great man is always being helped by everybody, for his gift is to get 
good out of all things and all persons.”— Ruskin. 

Adrian and Hermione were really at last engaged. Mrs. Nugent 
was better reconciled to the idea when she found that Adrian did 
not expect money with Hermione. He would not take from the 
income of his future mother-in-law. 

” To want to reduce your mother’s fortune would not be the way 
to reconcile her to me, would it, my darling?” he said to his be- 
trothed. 

To Hermione belonged the reversion of her father’s fortune, 
but life inlerest in it had been left entirely under Mrs, Nugent's 
control, unless she married again. Their wedding was to take 
place speedily. There was no occasion for delay further than that 
necessitated by the finding of a house and suitable furniture. 

” Artistic people need next to no furniture,” said IMrs. Bright, 
calmly, when she and Mrs. Nugent were house-hunting and plan- 
ning for the young people, who were, as Flitters called it, ” wrapt 
in rapturous coo.” 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


167 


Mrs. Nugent was too astonished to answer. 

Mrs. Bright had a horror of furniture. “ Each article you buy,”^ 
she would say, “ is something to dust and to get in the way. We 
should keep open space— the most valuable thing in London. So 
few people understand the repose of a long view.” 

She had reason to dread furniture. Mr. Bright was crowding 
himself out of his study by his purchases of scientific apparatus, 
while his brother-in-law, Mr. Jo Bright, was alwa3'^sat sales or pick- 
ing up bargains. Once he took in this way a vast collection of bird- 
cages, and their own largest attic in Welbeck Street was filled with ' 
a huge model of Edinburgh, bought at a sale, and too cumbrous to 
move without the help of an army of workmen. The old family 
nurse said, ” If Mr. Jo and Mr. Jos lived together, they would 
build themselves in with their rubbish.” 

Mrs. Nugent had had none of this experience, and she had a clever 
upper-housemaid. 

“As for the garden,” continued the unconscious Tante, who 
wanted to ease the way before the young couple, ” it is no expense 
at all. A thistle and a couple of docks, relieved with a dandelion 
in bloom, and there you are; and every one admires, and exclaims, 

‘ What a foreground!’ Even children cost the artist nothing. Just 
bread-and-milk, a Jersey, and a sash of red Turkey-twill, and they 
look like pictures bj" the great masters.” 

But Mrs. Nugent already found tne Brights and their ways de- 
testable, and she had some difficulty in keeping this to herself. 

An artist friend of Adrian’s wanted to let his house as it stood, 
and Adrian, who remembered many pleasant evenings passed at the 
Fripps’s, thought it might exactly suit them. Mrs. Nugent and 
Hermione w^ent to see the house. 

” This makes a fair studio,” said the artist’s wife, a tall, specta- 
cled. business-like person, not at all beautiful, but picturesque, with 
her red hair. 

“But this is the dining-room,” said Mrs. Nugent, who already 
found many objeciions to the house. 

“ Oh! who would give up a whole room with a'good light in it 
to mere dinner?” said the artist’s business-like wife. “ Are w’c bar- 
bers (barbares), as that amusing Friol at the Brights’ always consid- 
ers us? What a treasure he is!” 

“ ll’m!” said IMrs. Nugent, quietly. 

There were plenty of unsold paintings about the rooms and pas- 
sages. 

“ Not sold, you see,” said the lady, in an “ 1-told-you-so ” tone. 
She, and her husband too, for that malter, had no high views of 
art. They regarded it as -a profession, a business, rather than a 
cultus. They looked upon the Academy wudls in the way of busi- 
ness, as one might do of a shop window, as so many feet of adver- 
tising space, rather than an aperture for the admission of sweetness 
and light. 

Some of these paintings were rejections from the Academj’. 

“ WHiat will be done with them?” inquired Hermione. 

“ They will go to jMrnchester, Liverpool, or Dublin, or some of 
those exhibitions. TL^re are plenty of them, you know; place© 
where v e send what we can’t get rid of otherwise.” 


IGS 


ADIIIAX BRIGHT. 


“ VVliat a chance for Manchester, Livernool, Dublin, etc.. How 
glad they must be to be so favored,” thought Hermione. 

They passed up stairs from the room where the art-manufacture 
went on. 

” That is a lovely picture,” said Hermione, pointing to one of an 
Oriental roof seen in the soft after-glow of sunset, with girls sitting 
on it feeding pigeons. 

“ Yes, it’s a pretty picture, but not sold, you see. Oriental pict- 
ures don’t sell a bit. Our rule is, ‘ -whenever a picture is sold, make 
a duplicate of it,’ as they do with the bonnets at a milliner’s shop. 
It’s a safe rule.” 

The up-stairs studios were strewn with the ghastly lumber of an art- 
manufactory — with dust, draperies, casts, canvases, easels appropri- 
ated to pupils, and little arrangements of pictorial subjects Dn 
brackets, or small tables of still life, half rotten and nearly crswling 
away, picturesque apples very spotted, grapes gone moldy, pigeons 
gamey, and flowers withered. The skin of a pheasant, meant for a 
game piece, was suspended from a nail whereon an oil-flask was also 
banging: an old, broad felt hat with feathers, and a shabby guitar 
with strings and ribbons in bad condition, lay on a broken chair. 
Lay figures, in undress, leered at you embarrassingly, and other lay 
figures, attired in the jack-boots-and -jerkin style, or in turbans (if 
they were sitting to students who did not care to make money; who 
had higher views), made you think you were among the latest addi- 
tions to Madame Tussaud's Chamber of Horrors. 

Besides these objects, there were pots of aesthetic plants in the 
ttgonies of death by thirst, drooping among frowsy rummage and 
scraps of theatrical jewelry, together with bits of painted windows, 
Arabian lattice-work, and a chemist’s bottle of green-tinged water, 
which, when a lamp shines through it, forms a most admirable sub- 
stitute for moonlight. 

” Ah, that was a dodge used in the balcony-scene of ‘ Borneo and 
Juliet ’ that is in this year’s Academy exhibition,” said the painter’s 
wife, also the patentee of the manufactured moonlight, 

Hermione remembered the picture, which was one of the popular 
paintings of the year. At this moment all the poetry tied out of it, 
and it had possessed a magical charm for her. She was sorry to be 
disenchanted. 

Mrs. Fripps opened a large Wardour-Street wardrobe, of some 
dusty period, and hauled out bundles of garments of all sorts. 

“These are the historicaj clothes,” she said. “Here is Mary 
Stuart’s hood, there are Jessica’s trousers, and this is the crown of 
Charleningne, This Elizabethan ruff took me three whole days to 
inake. There are thirty yards of stiff net frilling and wire ribbon 
it it. Iso one who hasn’t sat for Queen Elizabeth can tell the hours 
and hours of agony I’ve endured with wearing that horrible frill; 
and these trunks ’’—she held up a pair of Jacobean trunk hose 
stutfed with horsehair. Hermione mentally wondered if she wore 
those articles also. “We used up all the stuffing of the dining- 
room sofa to make them; that is why the couch feels rather hard, 
though we have made it up again with rolls of stair-carpeting.” 

“All this must cause you great inconvenience at times,” said 
Hermione, politely. 


ADRIAX BllIGHT. 


ItiO 

“ All, there are worse things than that, iny dear, as you will soon 
know when you come to be an artist’s wife, like me. Really, 1 
have sometimes felt like losing all enthusiasm for the profession. 1 
have to sit for hands and legs for all the portraits because the sit- 
ters won’t do it, or their limbs are unfit for exhibition. Man}’’ a 
time I haven’t a shawl or even a petticoat to my back, they are all 
taken to stuff these creatures. You are lucky to have chosen a 
sculptor, whoso figures don’t drape, except with just the tatde- 
clotlis; but,” slie added, in a warning whisper, “look after your 
night-dresvses. Stand out against hia using your made-up things at 
once, and keep him to sheeting.” 

Were these really the prospects of' life before Hermione? Were 
all artists thus practical men? 

The whole place was scrappy after the manner of Ragfair. Her- 
mione was more than astonished to find Art thus stripped of its en- 
chantments. " She had no idea that painting was a business like any 
other, and required its tools and its bottled moonlight. It seemed 
the most prosaic career in the world. To Mrs. Nugent it was sim- 
ply disgusting. 

“ The side of the studio that you called the dining-room will do 
for the wardrobe, if you should want to make a bedroom of this 
room.” 

“What, put a great, wardrobe in the dining room!” exclaimed 
Mrs. Nugent. 

“ W''ell, of course it is as you like,'” said the red-haired lady. 
“ But even a sculptor must have somewhere to put the historical 
clothes.” 

ITermione thought of the “ chest of trousers ” at the Bright’s. 

The artist’s wife never thought of a wardrobe as being wanted 
for Herrnioue’s use up stairs. It had not occurred to her that ward- 
robes were bought for the personal convenience of anybody but the 
lay figure. Her own things lay about promiscuously anywhere on the 
first and second floors, until required to clothe herself as Mrs. 
Fripps, or in some historical character. 

“ You make everything subservient to Art,” said Hermione. 

“ Even the moon,” she added mentally, and somewhat satirically. 

The lady took the praise in dowmright earnest. 

“ Yet Art is not all bliss, though it looks like it to you,” she said, 
pensively, as she remembered how much she had to be, to do, and 
to suSer. 

It w’as said of Mrs. Fripps that she had been married for the ad- 
mirable resemblance her face bore to that of Queen Elizabeth, v/ith 
her red hair and her nose formed to command. For the famous pict- 
ure painted during their honeymoon at Gravesend, wdiich first made 
her husband’s name as an liistorical painter; she used to sit for 
hours at a time on the footboard rail of a French bedstead, in the 
attitude of Her Sacred Majestic on horseback at Tilbury Fort. The 
piiinting challenged comparison with the famous picture of “ The 
Lances,” by Velasquez; each have their warm admirers. They are 
somewhat similar in treatment of — the lances. 

There was nothing to be made of such a house as this. It was not 
worth while trying other furnished houses, they were sure to be un- 
suitable. IVIrs. Nugent droveabout untiringly to many house-agents. 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


170 

and armed -with sheaves of orders, examined villas, lodges, gardens, 
terraces. Once Adrian went witii her and Herniione. He was easy 
to please, whatever he saw he found delightful. lie only wanted 
the dining roDui, kitchen, and sculler}’’ left empty for a range of 
studios; lie thought they could do very well without a scullery, and 
proposed having the Kitchen at the top of the house. Indeed, he 
wanted to have the whole ground floor “ for his messes,” and talked 
of a shed in the garden besides. 

Mis. Nugent was horrified; she foresaw no comfort, no respecta- 
bility, for her daughter; a little more of such a strain and she would 
have broken off the marriage engagement; as it was, it quivered in 
the balance. Herniione pleaded for Adrian. Mrs. Nugent was in- 
dignant at his views. 

” Fancy my son-in-law in a holland blouse like a whitewasher, 
doing mechanical work under the eyes of a whole range of villasl” 

Hermione was silenced. Mrs. Nugent learned a lesson. She saw 
it was necessary to nip this sort of thing in the bud. It would soon 
destroy her daughter’s position entirely. Artists have no decency, 
no self-respect, she thought, and she thought very like the world in 
general. 

It is all very well to be known as So-and-so, R. A. , or Professor 
Tel-et-tel in evening dress at parties when uniform with everybody 
olse, but the world must not see the R.A. dabbling in moist clay, or 
the professor cooking his phosphates in any but a style prepared 
for exhibition; as they used to do these things for show at the 
Polytechnic in the Christmas holidays, in entertainments nearly 
as attractive as the glass-blowing of ships, peacocks with spun-glass 
tails, and dolls’ decanters. A painter can have his house and studio 
fitted up in a fashionably aesthetic style sufficiently genteel for even 
Mrs. Nugent; but a sculptor’s studio is always a hideously impos 
sible appendage to a house; it is no better than a large whitewashed 
cellar, or a shed for making mortar. 

No; Hermione should be kept from such contamination. Adrian 
must do as other professional men did, go into town by train every 
day, and sit at dinner every evening dressed like a gentleman; so 
the world of villas, lodges, gardens, terraces should know nothing 
of his puddling in wet clay, and he would not disgrace his wife. 

A studioless house was chosen, and, in spite of Adrian’s remon- 
strances. he was obliged to keep on his studio in Welbeck Street. 

Mrs. Nugent was the personification of worldly wisdom, but she 
could not see deeper than the world’s upper crust. 

The Brights were glad of Adrian’s society, and that those back 
offices of theirs should be filled with beauty instead of lumber and 
old bottles; only Bobby thought they would have made a pleasant 
range of play-rooms for himself, and a theater for his experiments. 
But Tante urged upon Hermione that she was risking the injury of 
hei home happiness, and losing the pleasure of her future husband’s 
companionship during many hours of the day. Had she known the 
heart of Linda Fraser, who was constantly at Welbeck Street, and 
about whose engagement there seemed to hang the uncertainty of 
mystery, she might have said that Mrs. Nugent was hazarding her 
child’s home-peace. Hermione did once think with some passing 
indefinable dread of Linda, though she cast away the warning 


ADRIAi^- BRIGHT. 


17i 

thought as unworthy of herself and Adrian, and a wrong to Linda. 
But Mrs. Nugent was inflexible, and every one else, of course, gave 
way. 

“1 should have liked my studio at home best, to he with yoii^ 
darling,” said Adrian to Hermione; ” but as your mother says it is 
not practicable, that it cannot be, 1 dare say there is some objection 
to it that I do not comprehend. She understands all these things so 
well.” 

Adrian thus far retained his implicit belief in Mrs. Nugent’s su- 
perior wisdom. Little Flitters thought he was quite ready to be a 
mother-in-law’s prey. Mrs. Nugent carried her point about the 
house, and incidentally about everything else. She took an elegant 
villa for the young couple in Maida Vale, furnished it to her taste 
(aided by a first-rate upholsterer), with a Queen Anne dining-room, 
a Louis Quinze drawing-room, with curtains of the Rose du Barry 
hue, to be en mite with a pair of pink vases under glass shades, and 
a pair of pink satin settees with gilt legs, with which tne young 
peopk; had been rejoiced as a wedding present by some maternal 
connections at Leeds, to match a fender-stool worked in pink and 
gray beads by Mrs. Nugent herself. 

‘‘ It is all too elegant and too delicate for us to use,” said Adrian, 
not wishing to give offense, but not much relishing the Du Barry 
style for his Hermione; neither did he admire a tiger sprawlant 
worked on the library hearthrug— a library bookless, but filled up in 
the Cromwell style with everything else suitable to a library, 

” People accustomed to nice furniture habitually use it well,” said 
mamma, wise in her generation, ” and my daughter has always been 
accustomed to nice furniture. The rest depends upon your having 
proper servants.” 

‘‘ We must take care to have nice servants,” said Adrian, gayly. 
“ I’ll get Friol to recommend me a couple more of his cousins,” 

Mrs. Nugent’s countenance expressed the utmost disapprcbatiou 
compatible with a lady -like calm. Adrian hastened to justify his 
measure. 

” Oh, Friol is faultless, I’ve always understood, and the difficulty 
with the Romance tongue is only a part of his general picturesque- 
ness.” 

” Most London butlers speak the Romance tongue— at least, so 1 
am informed,” said Hermione, demurely. 

Adrian laughed; only Mrs. Nugent’s presence kept him from at 
once going off on another tack. As it was, he stuck to the domestic 
line. 

‘‘ And Rosetta’s heaviest offense is an odor of Tonquin beau that 
she carries about as an amulet; but Cinderella is on the track of the 
bean.” 

” And means to eradicate it, I hope,” said Hermione, laughing. 

This playfulness was distressing to Mrs. Nugent, who knew the 
question of servants was no laughing matter. She always chose 
good servants at high wages as the best economy in the end. And 
it is a safe general rule for those who can afford it; but, like all 
rules based on the infinite variableness of human nature, it cannot 
be relied on with mathematical certainty. Mrs. Nugent had no 
sympathy with those enthusiasts who give themselves the trouble to 


172 


ADRIAISr BRIGHT. 


instruct their servants, with a view to increasing the number of good 
workers in the laud; making themselves real martyrs to the national 
elevation. Adrian went off to his studio, and incidentally to speak 
to Friol about his native connections, with a view to the importation 
of an adaptable neophyte. Mrs. Nugent addressed her daughter 
seriously. 

“ It is useless, Hermione, to attempt trainins: servants. Directly 
you have taught a servant anything, she leaves you to get higher 
wages elsewhere, carrying her knowledge with her.” 

And Mrs. Nugent plied the servants’ registry offices as diligently 
as she had worked the house-agent system. 

Friol recommended a certain Isidora, but, after Mrs. Nugent had 
seen her, he told Adrian “ she wouldn’t shoot.” Mrs. Nugent had 
seen many servants, but they also would not suit, 

” Pore gal, ” said the picturesque model, pitying the lady who had 
so much trouble in finding the necessaries of life. 

“ I’ve an ida,” said Friol. 

“ \Yell, Ida’s a pretty name,” said Adrian, who was modeling a 
finial that he meant to cast in bronze and mount on the gable of his 
studio in honor of Ilermione’s, or rather Mrs. Nugent’s, decision 
that he was to keep on his studio in Welbeck Street. He also 
meant to fit up his innermost studio, a small room which he used 
oftenest in winter, from its having a fireplace and a pleasant south- 
ern aspect, as a pretty sitting-room for Hermione, to be furnished in 
secret, and adorned with some of his choicest and favorite models. 

” He means he has an idea,” explained Cinderella, who was in the 
secret, ” Friol is never at a loss for a plan.” 

“ Yes, Herr Adrian, I’ve an ida.” 

But a note came from Hermione to Adrian to’say that the moment- 
ous question was settled, treasures had been found, and they were to 
be domestically happy ever after. 

Hence Friol’s ” ida ” remained an unknown quantity. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

“ It was yours to have directed, yours to have raised and rejoiced in, the 
skill, the modesty, the patience of this entirely gentle and industrious race; 
copyists with their heart." — Ruskin. 

, Now that Little Flitters had come to London, it was a question 
of wdiere she should live. To herd with her people would remove 
her too far for professional purposes from the influence of society’s 
vortexes; for there is more than one vortex in London, and music 
cannot be professed profitably save in a vortex. Her people lived 
out Tollington Parkway; so it was said of them, and so it was; 
but the line be^mnd Tollington Park must be produced ever so far 
before you reached the point H which stands for home of the Flit- 
ters family. Just as one may live beyond the Marble Arch some- 
where, and that somewhere may be either a choice situation in Bays- 
water, or the Buddies bricktield, Southall, Middlesex. 

Little Flitters had great pluck, but not much stamina, so she was 
easily exhausted; and to travel from tlie point H to be finished by 
Herr Grollenicht at his quarters in Dover Street, Piccadilly, and 


ADRIAN- BRIGHT. 


173 


back, every other day, and to the W. and S.W. districts for tight- 
dress performances every other night, would have run away with 
the small strength and other allowances of our little friend. She 
would have been finished ofi otherwise than h^’’ Herr Grollenichl. 
“ Too highly finished,” she thought, “ quite polished off.” 

” I know of a capital lodging for Day Flitters,” said Cinderella 
Bright. 

The Brights’ own home was full as an egg, so they could noc ask 
her there, though she most frequently dined there, giving music les- 
sons to the children at the hours most convenient to herself. “ 1 saw 
a bill up to-day in the house where Linda lives. I asked about it; 
it is the second floor, just a sitting-room and bedroom, and quite 
cheap.” 

” Did Linda tell you?” asked her mother. 

” No, I didn’t ask her. I heard it from the people of the house.” 

Linda Fraser occupied the ground-floor of a villa in St. John’s 
Wood. Her three rooms were furnished by herself very elegantly 
in the modern aesthetic style. One room, lighted by two windows 
and a small conservatory, was most tastefully fitted up as a parlor- 
studio. The front room, opening hy folding-doors upon the studio, 
was severely furnished in the dining-room style; that is to say, with 
a practicable table and chairs. Here Miss Fraser kept her desk and 
account-books, and received indifferent people and kept them at a 
distance. The third apartment of the suite was an elegant dressing- 
room with a bed in it. 

People’s characters are often more clearly read in their houses 
than in their faces. I know of no surer index to the mind, except 
in the case of young married people, whose houses have not irrown 
to fit them, and these give rather more a clew to their friends’ 
minds, and the opinions of the dictatorial, but fascinating, shop- 
keeper. 

The artist’s house is oftenest an interesting muddle, mixed of 
beauty and decay, perhaps most of decay, in its dusty formation. 
But Linda missed many of the qualities of the artist, and her house 
was her own self-importance reduced to still life. You could read 
her good opinion of herself in every article of furniture or decora- 
tion. The house, seated between its own back and front garden, 
was very quiet, the first floor being occupied by an engraver, a per- 
fect gentleman and an admirable artist, but lame, and a great invalid; 
and a reading man, who lived in the British Museum, inhabited by 
night the small and scantily furnished second floor, of which two 
rooms only were let to lodgers. The reading man had departed this 
limisefor some weeks, and a change came o’er the spirit of its inhab- 
itants’ dream when the jocund Little Flitters came to terms with the 
lessees immediately after hearing of the eligible quarters, and sent 
in her piano and musical apparatus. 

Linda Fraser was extremely angry with Cinderella for having sent 
Flitters to her abode. She did not like having her privacy threat- 
ened by the introduction of friends’ friends. But it was done now, 
and it only remained for Linda to ignore Little Flitters on every 
possible occasion of their meeting. Flitters cared nothing at all for 
.Linda or her contempt. She chirruped about, and made friends 
with tlie whole house, save this girl of her own age, who, like her- 


A Dill AX BRIGHT. 


174 

self, cultivated a branch of art with about the same energy and lack 
of real gift, and she became the especial confidante of the sickly en-^ 
graver. Flitters, hearing he was one day more than usually ill, bad 
boldly gone down to ask him if her piano made life a heavier bur- 
den to iiim, as she would have gone at once lo Erard’s and taken 
out a irood practice by trying all the pianos of the establishment. 
Little Flitters was not" shy. "^But he assured her no. He liked to 
hear Flitters play; it gave him a feeling of companionship, and dis- 
tance softened the horror of the scales and difficult passages in the 
sonatas in many perplexing keys. Her piano stood above his sit- 
ling-room, not over his work-room, where he usually sat, so he could 
get away wlieu reiteration became unbearable. 

Flitters discovered his secret in five minutes. He had a secret; ho 
was desperately in love with Linda Fraser — hopelessly so, of course, 
for it was impossible 1 hat he, poor, puny, crippled with hip-joint 
disease, could ever dream of marrying that magnificent woman, 
whose proud bearing made her seem a very Juno, unless, indeed, 
lie had been a millionaire, when he would have had as good a chance 
as any other possessing only nine plums. He had never spoken to 
Linda in his life, had no recognition from her beyond her answering 
bow, if they met at the entrance to their house, wliich was seldom; 
but one of his w^indows commanded an angle of her conservatory, 
and there he sat at worship, and there he etched her portrait on a 
small gold plate, in most exquisite dot-and-line engraving. 

The delicate beauty of this work will be best described by a pas- 
sage from Ruskin’s “ Ariadne Florenlina,” which will also give the 
best idea of the patient, humble loveliness of the character of him. 
who wrought it, and the exquisite sensibility of hand and wondrous- 
ly trained skill which produced that microscopic cloud of beauty. 
For he and I are thinking of the same man, an earnest man, with a 
name well known to those who understand what best work is, 
though Ruskin is actually describing a vignette from Scotland, and 
I am writing of a woman’s portrait, of which I saw one print that 
had been taken from the cherished small gold plate, which, ma3ffie, 
Ruskin never saw, or else this one would have been his theme: 

“ You would think, would 3mu not (and rightly), that of all diffi- 
cult things to express with crossed blvick line^ and dots, the face of 
a young girl must be the most difficult. Yet here you have the face 
of a bright girl, radiant in light, transparent, mysterious, almost 
breathing, her dark hair involved in delicate wreath and shade, her 
t yes full of joy and sweet playfulness” — this must be altered for 
iJnda’s portrait to ” maidenly pride” — ” and all this done by the 
exquisite order and gradation of a vciy few lines, which, if you 
will examine them through a lens, you find dividing and checkering 
!be lip, and cheek, and chin so strongly that you would have fancied 
the3’’ could 01113’' produce the effect of a grim iron mask. But the 
iiitelligencies of order and form guide them into beaut3q and inflame 
iliem with delicatest life. 

” And do you see the size of this head? About as large as the 
l»u(l of a forget-me-not. Can 3mu imagine the fineness of the little 
pressures of the hand on the steel in that space wdiich at the edge of 
the almost invisible lip fashioned its less or more of smile?” 

1 have been looking at that Stoihard picture, and it is lovely and 


ADKIAIf BRIGHT. 


175 

•wonderful, as Ruskin says, but it does not equal Linda’s portrait 
by her unsuspected lover. This face is abojit the size of a daisy, and 
as delicately worked.- These tender touches that graduate the tlt sli 
and form into such delicate roundness are light and soft as if a fairy 
kise had alighted at each dot on the gold plate. The plate was a 
jewel rarer than the finest coin that ever sovereign queen caused to 
be minted to commemorate the greatest triumph of her reign, and 
the impression that 1 saw — that rare, that unique proof — wa^a pict- 
ure full of color. Black and white are a combination impossible 
to think of before that warm, palpitating flesh, that regal air, that 
genius’s ideal of queenly womanhood; and it was a symbol of what 
Ruskin calls “ so pathetic a uselessness, of obedient genius,” scarce- 
ly ever to be seen, created to live only in his heart. 

And all young Carrou’s work was of this order, as full of thought, 
and love, and patience as it would hold, often clearing up the 
painter’s indistinct idea, or finishing and polishing the neglected 
corners of his work, done when he himself was tired of beauty, 
which his patient follower never was. Bodily weary Walter 
Carron often was, for he had to lean upon a stafi: or crutch as he 
stood at his high work-bench bending over his plate, under the full 
light of the windows looking on the leafage of the back garden and 
that conservatory angle But seldom was his work so miniatured as 
in this engraving. He mostly used large plates, and translated 
boldly-shadowed paintings with masterly skill and power of burin. 
His prints are all well known. Some few of his finest proofs 
adorned his rooms, mingled with gems of water-color, sweet 
memories of skies, and pearly waters that he had gained from 
friendship, or bought on truest principles of natural selection. 

But Flitters had seen his gem, his hidden treasure, the portrait. 
For there was a something — a rare geniality, I think it was— about 
Flitters that always attracted friendship to her w'here she chose, 
notwithstanding her sharp little tongue and quasi-plebeian w'ays. Be- 
sides, she could talk to him of Linda. ' She knew' her, often met 
her, and although she really did not care about her, and wdial she 
knew of her she did not love, 5'^et she look care not to tell the truth 
of this to Carron, and thus to rob him of a pleasure that he had just 
begun to feel. He and Flitters often talked for hours after she had 
gone through her six-hours-a-day devotion to her scales and manual 
labor. Improperly independent little creature that she was, often, 
when she had no party to play at, no bit of thorough bass or har- 
mony to copy out, she would bring her needlework dowm stairs — 
often, I am shocked to say it, a task of stocking-darning, or a collar 
to trim— and sit by the light of the wMndow or the lamp, and have 
a talk with Carron as he brought foiwvard a foreground, or rein- 
forced his lines on drapery. 

Srangcrs to each other, only, as it were, yesterday, this he and she 
had become like brother and sister, or like kindly cousins. This 
young man, with delicate, pain-drawn features, fair w'aving hair, 
and blue e3'es wdth a fire in them, had a secret; ami this bright, 
-cheerful, active young woman-friend shared it, and this made them 
both safe. 

They were talking each of the outlook of their own profession, 
she encouragingly, as was comforting to him; he somew'hat bitter- 


176 


ADKIAN BUIGHT. 


ly, as was not liis gentle spirit’s wont. J5ut even m a saint 
whiles, some touch of human gall will come to the surface, and,, 
being on the surface, it is the more visible, until sometimes the best 
of men will be judged by that alone. 

“ And who thinks of the engraver?’^ be said of a plate he had 
just completed of a tine modern work, which it had taken him four 
years of patient toil to execute. The painting itself had not occupied- 
three mouths. “ Who thinks for a moment of the engraver, unless 
lie should be an old master, an etching by whose hand bears a 
fabulous price, its weight in gold — more, in bank paper — and this 
only by the collector’s fictitious valuing, that will secure the rarity 
rather than the excellence of the market? Who looks at the name 
of the engraver of even Alma Tadema’s ‘ Sappho,’ much as this is 
admired? If a picture is a popular one, the print will be bought,, 
but the painter has all the praise. We are his servants.” 

It was not often that Carron spoke bitterly of his art, but he had 
heard from Flitters in what high esteem Linda Fraser held the 
painter artists, and he inferred, from her easy, fluent talk, that 
Linda, like the rest of the world, view^ed engravers in the light of 
copyists merely, without gerius, and, therefore, incapable of origi- 
nality or the higher qualities of art. But not long could he bear even 
his ow’u disparagement of his art, which he loved and respected as 
a man of genius should, as a true and good man loves and respects 
the wife whom he has chosen, tie went on, as by way of explain- 
ing a truth to Flitters: 

” But there is a pridt, as in a duty fulfilled, in being the one to 
proclaim the gospel of the beauty of another’s work. It is in the- 
spirit of John the Baptist.” 

” It has the beauty of vohmtary sacrifice,” said Flitters, warmly.. 
“ Yet a great pianist is as much admired as the composer.” 

‘‘ More so, indeed. It is strange how in this the art processes- 
contradict each other.” 

“Yet,” said Flitters, “you enjoy translating a fine work as a 
pianist likes playing a fine composition, with a certain thankfulness 
to the composer who has created you such a beautiful thing to en- 
jo.V-” 

They wmrked on quietly for some minutes longer; Flitters w^ns 
seldom so serious or so long quiet as this. Carron was evidently 
lashing himself with stinging thoughts, with alternate self criticism 
and self-justification. 

“Have 1 no firmness of character,” he addressed an imaginary 
foe, “ no soul of my own, think you? — wdien, see here,” and he 
cut a line in his copper plate by a single furrow, in the exact out- 
line of a fallen mantle of drapery in the foreground in his copy, 
giving it at once, by force of wrist, its exact depth that it ayouIcI 
have as the leading foreground line of the finished plate. The ac- 
curacy w^as astonishing as a proof of power, conclusive as the 
Tondo of Giotto; but Flitters was not educated to appreciate the 
master-stroke, it was to her much as a marvelous proof of skill at 
cricket is to — let us say a Frenchman, or some other one unac- 
quainted with the game. He feels it to be skillful, but of its finest 
points he is ignorant. Still, Flitters was never slow to applaud 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 177 

“ But see here, and then tell me if 1 have not the heart, the 
strength, and tlie higher qualities of a man.” 

He lield his graving tool firml}'- and struck off a second line ex- 
actly echoing the other, at the sixteenth of an inch distant from it 
throughout, and in weight and color precisely similar to the first. 
This was a far more surprising thing to do. It is comparatively 
easy to draw one complex curve of perfect excellence, but to repeat 
the stroke, to follow it exactly and equally in all its parts, is only to 
be done by a Locksley among engravers; and none but the trained 
artist can appreciate its difficulty. It needs the subtlest sensibility 
to perceive that it is done in consummate accuracy, and to note how 
the line has fulfilled its intention in every gradation of thickness, or 
of delicacy, throughout its entire length. To such an observer it is 
the complete vindication of the master-skill of hand and mind of 
the ilraughlsman. 

But such a one Flitters was not. She could play a piece of music 
over and over again in precisely the same manner, so that no shade 
of difference could be recognized after once she called it perfect. 

No growth of power or feeling could be perceived after the hun- 
dredtir repetition. iShe played as does a musical-box. not as a 
human soul set in motion. So she couhl not be trusted to perceive 
the marvel of the repeated stroke; the first one struck her as splen- 
did, because he evidently intended it as a proof of his known skill, 
the second did not impress her at all, because in her art this was an 
everyday performance. The auditor or observer (that is, the critic) 
must be trained in the same habit of discernment and strict atten- 
tion as the artist, or art fails of half its power. Before a savage it 
would lose it all. 

“ The men whocan put their souls into another’s work — ” quoted 
Carron. 

“ As 3 ^ou and I do,” interrupted Flitters. 

But she was wrong, her soul (good little creature) was never really 
in her music, but in the kindly work she could do for others, to 
help and piece out their patched and ragged lives; and in the light 
merriment with which she cheered them, as a glass of wine makes 
glad a poor man’s heart. Her fingers only were in her art. She 
kneaded another’s fine flour into a neat pie-crust and served it up, 
hot; she added nothing of her own, nothing but the mechanical 
hand-labor she put into it. She did not really, as Clara Schumann 
does, give a voice to a dead soul; so that he, being dead, yet 
speakelh. 

Little Flitters fancied she put her soul into her music, becauso 
she studied it. and it was pleasant to her; as a botanist may think 
he lov^es the flowers he pulls to pieces for analysis. But she like- 
wise thought (dear little humility) that it was a very little soul, just 
of a size to match her body; and as for genius, she left that to the 
world’s imagination; it was her business to entertain the w’orld, 
not to undeceive it. She did not deceive herself, however; she 
began her name for her genius with a hard G, not Guess-work, bul 
Gas bags. Slie was not proud. 

Carron was prouder even in his deeper humility. His pride was 
in his art, lowly as the common world ma}’- rate that art. But he 
had no pride in himself. He never guessed that he had genius, but 


ADKIAN BRIGHT. 


178 

only application, while Linda Fraser never guessed that she had not 
genius. Flitters was deeper-sighted than either, and knew her tal- 
ent for “ gas-bags,” and guessed that Linda’s was ihe same. Car- 
Ton she took at the world’s valuation, adding thereto her own. 
For art she had no soul, only fingers; for well-doing she had a soul, 
and it was never weary. 

CHAPTER XXVII. 

“Words are good, but uot the best.”— Goet'he. 

Hermione’s simplicity and good-humor delighted Mr. Bright, 
and she enjoyed the friendly sociability of ” Uncle Jos,” in which 
quality he and his wife met as in a miter. His quaint forms of 
thought called out an answ^ering chord from the latent poetry in 
Hermione’s nature, and his droll anecdotes and w^ays amused her, 
so free was he from all self-consciousness, so utterly did he ignore 
Mrs. Grundy and her kind. 

He would stop at a stall to purchase celery, at the time the celeri- 
mania was raging in London, and with the utmost complacency 
walk home with a bundle of it under his arm, innocent of even a 
newspaper wrai ping. 

Such uuconventionality as this, to a pupil of Mrs. Nugent, w'as 
startling, but Hermione could not detect in the queerest of his ways 
a trace of vulgarity. His manners were too natural to be other than 
gentlemanlike, while the odd bits of wit or learning he drew from 
his memory (or funded thought) made him interesting to her, 
where, perhaps, she might otherwise have felt shocked. {Some 
things shock us because they are wrong, some because they disturb 
our conventions. Hermione understood this when she heard the 
story of how Mr. Bright had met a poor, ragged youth, about the 
age of his own Tom, lounging about the streets on a Sunday morn- 
ing; how he told him to meet him at the same spot in the after- 
noon, and he would bring him some clothes on his way to church. 

” You know,” said Cinderella to Hermione. “it is not many 
men who would carry a coat and trousers on Sunday to give a noor, 
bare boy.” Hermione thought not, and pictured to herself how 
shocked Mrs. Nugent would have been to meet any friend of hers 
carrying these articles at any time. “We met the Amedrozes,” 
continued 'Rella, “ and Lady Glory chaffed papa about the bundle 
that was under his top coat, making it bunchy in the wrong place; 
and all the Sunday people were filing to church in a great troop, 
so that Bimbo cried out, ‘ That’s a great school! What long girls!’ ” 

Hermione laughed. 

“ Did he mean tall girls, or a great troop of them?” 

“ Both I think,” said Cinderella. “ But really papa is sometimes 
too little particular about his personal appearance, considering he is 
such a nice-looking man. Sometimes his coat is so crumpled with 
sitting upon it that I tell him it is as if he advertised ‘ Mangling 
done here.’ ” 

Fortunately Mrs. Bright was easy in disposition; for to most 
women it would have been a trial to see her husband carrying pails 
of water, or running about with the coals. He said he did it for the 
sake of example, especially to the servants. 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 179 

“ It shames them,” he said. ” They are ashamed to be idle if 1 
am active.” 

In reality his servants’ idea was, ” If master likes to do it, ho 
may,” and they troubled themselves no further. 

” 1 must warn Hermione to have as little to do with the Brights 
as possible,” thought Mrs. Xugent, when she heard all this. But 
she still had to undergo the family dinner-party in Welbeck Street, 
where slie was to meet for the first time Adrian’s father, who had 
come to London on purpose to see and love his new daughter-in- 
law, 

” You will dine with us, of course,” said Xante, speaking of the 
dinner-party to Little Flitters, who had just come to give the chil- 
dren their music lessons. 

” No, I think not. I will come in the evening and taste the brass- 
knockers ” (the remains of a feast), “and help ’Bella with her 
music. I always come to grief at a stiff dinner.” 

” 'This isn’t a stiff dinner. It is not a party at all; only the Nu- 
gents must eat and drink in my house. I can’t give a regular party 
while I am daily expecting the painters to begin their work.” A 
general “ doing-up ” of their house hung impending over the 
Brights like the sword of Damocles. It might fall. Ladders might 
invade them at any moment. 

‘‘No; but Mrs. Nugent is stiff,” said Flitters, ‘‘and I shall 
shock her. Last time I dined out I had lots of mishaps, and at 
last 1 tried an olive, for peace; that is, I tried to slick my fork into 
it, and it slipped out over m}’- shoulder— bang— and fired straight at 
the nose of a starched servant.” 

‘‘ Oh, nonsense; you must come to make .up my party. With 
you we shall be just ten. If you don’t come, 1 must make Cin- 
derella dine with us. If I had Saffo at home I should not mind 
your not coming ”-T-Flitter bowed comically — ‘‘but ’Bella is too 
young, and she doesn’t want to waste her time, she says.” 

‘‘ Oh, if it is a sacrifice. I’ll gladly come, and make a merit of 
it,” 

‘‘ I can’t promise you a complete martyrdom; some interesting 
men are coming; J\[r. Fairfax, Adrian’s philosopher friend, who is 
a pleasant man, and Lord Palairet, the picture collector, to meet 
him. With Uncle Jo, the Nugents, Linda, and ourselves, we 
shall be ten at dinner, and a few others will come in the evening. 

This point settled, dinner was ordered at the confectioner’s, so as 
to save Mrs. Bright’s time and Mrs. Nugent’s feelings; for it was 
not worth while inventing for JMrs. Nugent’s sake a symposium 
wdiich might have shocked her by its caprice. Though, when 
Mrs. Bright was in an inventive mood, or had a festive feeling 
consequent upon having finished a picture to the best of her mind, 
she could contrive the most tasteful and poetical of parties, dinner, 
dance, or supper, that ever a Boccaccio could devise, such as she 
called ‘‘ the flower of a life.” But this dinner-party was essentially 
to be commonplace. Mrs. Bright felt that the family eccentriciW 
was already dangerous to Adrian’s prospect of marriage, anti a 
severe trial to Mrs. Nugent; so she made as great an effort lobe 
ordinaiy as most people do to be extraordinary, and with nearly as 
little success. She looked forward by and hy to having Hermione 


180 


ADRIAN BEIGHT. 


at those charming, mirth-inspiring festivals of hers, but there n’as 
abundant time for all that as yet; the first thimr was to lie a safe 
knot. Trouble awaited her on the threshold of the dinner. 

Friol came lo her in dismay. He had been in his master’s study 
to implore him to restore the soup-plates, of which he had a dozen 
and a half spread out on his balcony, and on his book case tops, all 
full of phosphates and hypophosphites of various mixtures. lie ab- 
solutely refused to give them up. Friol sighed. His master was 
a great trial to him. He tried to console himself, under the w'oes 
which those must suffer who wait on learned men, by diligent prac- 
tice of his concertina, and cigarettes as he took Rosetta for her 
evening walks, when he tried to wmrk out his idas (ideas) of relief. 
But with such mfringement of kitchen privileges as this of the 
soup-plates, which was only one of many tyrannies, what idas 
could avail? It must be action, not idas, Friol had just opened 
the pepper-canister with a jerk that sent a cloud of fiery dust in his 
face. He fumed vigorously. 

“ All the supper-plates, every each, he annex dem all.” 

Mrs. Bright went down to intercede for a few, just ten would do, 
and jam-pots should replace them. But no, he could not give 
them up. 

” I will go out and buy some,” he said. Of course they would 
not match the rest of the dinner-service, but they could explain that 
away, if people complained. 

“Oh, I believe no one even notices the pattern of their soup- 
plate. It is only we who suffer in our conscience.” 

“ 1 have no conscience in the matter of soup-plates.” And verily 
I believe he had not. 

“ Now', then, who wmnts to go out with papa?” said Mr. Brio-ht 
to his dock. 

“ You can’t go out, papa, it’s poggy,” eJlgerly cried Bimbo, who 
w^auted to stay at home with mamma, and yet wanted to keep papa 


“No, it isn’t foggy,” said Bobby, who wanted to go, and went 
off to put himself in walking trim, 

“ Don t let us take Bambino, papa,” said Augusta; “ he’ll bother 
us, and I want to slup.” Coa.xingy, to Bambino: “ Do you want 
to run down and help Rosetta?” 

“ She can do her own help,” said Bambino, stcutly, but holdino- 
mamma tight. . ® 

“ Why do you love mamma so much?” asked papa. 

“ Because 1 likes her.” 

“ Then you can keep mamma and let papa go out with me ” 
said Augusta, persuasively. ’ 


Tou can t any of you go,” burst in Bobby. “ The boots are 
not cleaned. It rains down-stairs.” This meant that the German 
maul was crying. Germans are very fond of crying. When they 
have nothing else to cry lor, they will take out the half loaf of 
bread that all of them bring from their fatherland, usually kept 
^aretully wrapped up in paper in the workbox, and weep over it 
lo-day it was not bread, but a row of b )Ots, that the maiden was 
lamenting over. She wept like a water-cart. Friol stood over her 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 181 

with the discipline of compulsion, and vainly strove to make her 
clean the boots. 

•’ Ich kaiin es nicht, ich thue es nicht, ich will es nicht,” and she 
burst into quarts cf tears. 

•• "Women are a mystery, especially German women.” muttered 
Friol, in the Romance langua^^e, of course. ” She has never ob- 
jected to do this little job for me before, and now that I am busy 
with the stuffed cabbage, and the savage ducks, to say nothing of 
the lobster cutlets, made without lobster (lobster cutlets, indeed, 
aussi bien des coteleites de pommes de terre), she must I urn rebellious, 

• and want me to take my hands out of my art and dip them into 
blacking.” Friol W’as not the only servant of the Brights who 
! preferred doing what he chose rather than sticking to any special 
branch of work. ” It enlarges the mind,” he explained to Bobby, 
who understood him and felt with him. Bobby also liked doing 
what he chose. 

The Brights’ old family nurse was almost superannuated, so she 
was retiring on her savings and a pension, in favor of Lizabufl, the 
good-natured cook, who had always been fonder of the children than 
of cooking. Rosetta, having graduated in the art of cookery under 
Friol, was to replace her at the cooking bench, and a fresher Goth 
had recently been imported as housemaid. Tliere was a general 
shifting in the ministry, such as occurs sometimes in loftier spheres. 

” Hinc nice lacUrymce,'' said May, who could not lose such an op- 
Xjortunity for showing off. ” Amaiasontha hasn’t settled down yet.” 

*' It is pitifying,” said Friol, to Bobby, as he went down to see 
after this little domestic matter. She is generally so soft, so 
douce.” 

Bobby turned, as in justice bound to hear Amalasontha’s de- 
fense, of which he made out the general drift rather than tht words. 

*• She says wus acez de lajoiie, Friol — cheek to ask her to do it, 
you know. But w’e can’t settle it now; bring us up the boots as 
they are; they’re washed clean enough by this time.” 

“Do we want any supplies for the house, Friol?” said Mr. 
Bright, when he appeared with the boots. 

They were clean. Let us not inquire further how they became so. 
Mrs. Bright did not; she drew a veil. Perhaps this was why her 
servants generally stayed with her so long; she let the sediment of 
disputed points settle down. 

“ Let me sink, ssre,” said Friol, rubbing his brow. 

“ Any oatmeal, pospits, eh?” Mr. Bright often used the broken 
English of the juniors, thinking it more cognate to the Romance 
tongue. 

” No, sare, here is a dollop,” said the retiring Friol, in perfectly 
matter-of-fact, respectful tones. He always spoke of a dollop when 
he meant there was plenty of anything. 

” Now, I’m going out,” said Mr. Bright, who had prepared his 
list. ” Now, dear mother and daughter, you’re in charge. The 
house is well deodorized. Have you everything you want for the 
house? You have, Coudy? ’Bella, what’s German for potatoes?” 

“ Kartoffel, papa.” 

“ Here, Rosetta,” said Mr. Bright, speaking at the kitchen stairs, 
‘‘ karsnoffle— shall I order in any karsnoffle?” 


ADRIAN BRIGHT, 


182 

This little matter bad to be cleared up too, and then it transpired 
that they U’ere not so much in want of kartodel as of other vege- 
tables, because Friol had mixed a salad, and Mr. Bright, thinking 
it was a find, had innocently given it to the fowls, or, as Friol ex- 
pressed it, “he thought it was the fools’ meat.’’ Mr. Bright 
explained this as a purely accidental thing. 

“ Now, Bobby, come to your music-lesson,’’ said Little Flitters, 
released from May, Junia, and Julia. By the way, she made the 
children play duels as much as possible, to get over the ground 
quicker. 

“ Oh, 1 can’t come: 1 have to go out— I have to go to the Cob,’ 
said Bobby. 

“ Nonsense. Bobby,” said Augusta, who thought hers the only 
important wants. 

“ 1 must look in the Cob list for something to want,” whispered 
Bobby to May. 

“ I'want tape and many things,” said Augusta. 

“ 1 want a Noah’s ark,” said Bobby. 

“Well, a Noah’s ark teaches you natural history,” said May,., 
who thought the want reasonable. 

“ Get outl” said Bobby. 

“ Loo mustn’t say get out,” said Bambino; “ loo must say ‘ if 
loo please get out.’ ” 

“ But you can’t do shopping at the Cob, Bobby— you're not big 
enough,” said May. 

“ Oh yes, I can. 1 shall say, ‘ 80,014— do you hear, young fel- 
low, 80,014?’ and they’ll soon bring me Noah’s arks to look at.” 

“No, you must go and have your music-lesson,” said Cinderella,, 
firmly. 

“ Yes, be a good boy, and then you and 1 will go out this evening 
together,” said Flitters, persuasively; and then she sang, 

“ We’ll gang awa, Bobby, 

Out into Crawford Street, laddie, 

And buy a braw new pat of fresh butter 
For you and me to eat for tea-ea-e, laddie.” 

“Never mind, Daisy,” said ’Bella; “let him go this once. It 
will save us the trouble of looking after them, if papa will take him. 
and Bambino out. It will spare the family horse-power.” 

Cinderella always thought of the family horse-power. She made 
the least strong among them finish up the milk; the one that was- 
weakest,or whohad the most important work impending, was recom- 
mended for any holidays or change of air that might be going; so 
she economized their time, according to who was most or least busy 
at work of family importance; the least busy was to do such things 
as dressing Bambino or ordering dinner. Thus these latter things 
came oftenest to herself to do, since she could not maintain that the 
completion of her tragedy was of vital importance to the well-being 
of the family. She looked forward longingly to her elder sister 
Saffo’s return from Paris, as to a clear opening for herself to follow 
literature with an easy conscience. 

By this time the children anil their Cob lists were all ready, and 
Mr. Bright set off to lay in a store of fresh soup-plates (which he 


ADIUAN BRIGHT. 


183 

would doubtless misappropriate to-morrow), with Bimbo on in 
front, and Augusta, who ran after him, looking like a fuchsia, with 
her short, corolla-like dress, and slender legs like stamens, and 
Bobby walking by his side, and consulting him about his future 
purchases at the Cob, like a man. 

“ That’s a trousers button, Bobby, not a sovereign,” said Mr. 
Bright. 

‘‘ Don’t pick it up!” cried Augusta, eagerly; ” jmu don’t know 
what the last person who wore it died of. It might have been in- 
fectious.” 

They did not get as far as the Cob. Indeed, Oxford Street seemed 
quite capable of serving their turn, for by the time Bobby had eaten 
five of yesterday’s (half-price) buns in a shop where he went in to 
buy a farthing jumble (he asked the young lady to plesse put it in 
a bag for him), there seemed nothing more to do but choose the 
soup-plates, and the tape for Augusta. 

” iJow could you eat five stale buns, you greedy boy?” said 
Augusta, reproachfully. 

” These thines are given t3 us for our use,” said Bobby, sturdily. 

Mr. Bright was gljtd to see that the boy had a fine appetite, and 
he reflected that there must be a good deal of nutriment of some sort 
in five buns, probably phosphates in large proportion. 

Then Augusta, who had piled on all the finery she could find, 
felt grown-up enough to take her innocent papa to Peter Robinson’s 
to buy a penny worUi of tape. 

” I wish to look at some tape,” quoth she, grandly, to the shop- 
man. 

It seemed to Mr. Bright rather a large establishment to go to for 
so small a thing, as he saw the young man make out a bill, and roll 
the article in paper as attentively as if it had been a fine silk dress; 
but Augusta was satisfied that she was doing the full-grown and 
ladylike thing. However, she soon remembered that she wanted 
some ” kilting ” for her skirt, and would have gone on enlarging 
her horizon if the boys, Bobby and Bambino, had not become clam- 
orous to £0 on the ” Embangment ” to see the ” darnpsiiips,” for 
so these little quasi-Germans always called the steamers, and also 
to see ” the steam voller, volling along ve voad,” and Bimbo hurried 
along singing, ” Oh, you little darling, I love loo!” for very glad- 
ness at escaping from the big shop where he was expected to be so 
very good, and nothing else, 

” Don’t sing that out in the street,” said the ladylike Augusta. 

” 1 like to singclapsieal music,” returned the young connoisseur. 

Augusta had a weight on her mind of wdiich she only relieved it 
when she got home. ” Ah, majiima,” she said, ” papa does make 
me so ashamed of him. I bought some kilting, and asked to see 
some difierent sorts; one was three-halfpence a yard, and papa act- 
ually told me to take some that was a halfpenny, as he said, ‘ I save 
a penny by that transaction.’ It sounded as if we hadn’t any 
money. It was really dreadful!” 

” Mamma, how very Wordsworthian all that is,” said Cinderella, 

“it will be useful to you in your tragedy, I should think,” said 
Mrs. Bright, laughing at Augusta’s woes. 

Mr, Bright, too, had always plenty of Wordsworthian anecdotes 


ADIilAN BRIGHT, 


184 

to tell whenever he returned from a walk, even when he went out 
without the children. And why not? A keen observer of Nature 
need not confine himself to buttercups and daisies, and interesting 
little facts ccncerning the loves of the hedge sparrows. If Gilbert 
■\Vhitc had been a London clergyman we might have had as pleas- 
ant a book as the “ Natural History of Selborne,” entitled, perhaps, 
“ Men and Manners in Baker Street.” 

Mr. Bright seldom M ent out without meeting, or making, adven- 
tures, of no sensational kind, perhaps, but such as enliven one’s 
daily walks. 

At the distrct railway station, where they took the train to return 
home, w^as a part}' of gypsy women in the way. The six of them 
divided, three on” etch side, for the children to pass. Mr. Bright 
took off his hat and said, ” Thank you, ladies, for this nice gang- 
way.” 

“ Pitty girl dat,” said Bimbo, of one of the gypsies. 

They all grinned with their gleaming teeth and bright eyes. On 
emerging from the railway, Augusta, with her fuchsia legs, ran on to 
overtake Bambino, who, with the charming humor of childhood, was 
now' pulling at the area bells, while some of the neighbors looked 
on amused, at seeing the patience with which Mr. Bright wailed 
while his precious child ran up and down everybody’s doorsteps. 
Mr. Bright cared not for the bells, but lest his precious babe should 
trip and fall. Some days ago the boy had fallen dowm, and a man 
picked, him up and wiped his frock. 

“ Thank you kindly, my man,” said Mr. Bright, feeling in his 
pocket for coppers, but these were already gone. 

He came home and expressed his regret at not being able to reward 
so good a man; but he never forgot a face, and always looked out 
for him. This was some weeks ago. To-day he met the man in 
question, and addressed him without introduction: 

“ Ah, you are the man who took up my boy the other day.” 

“ I never took off your boy,” said the man, angrily. 

“ 1 said took him up when he had fallen down, and here’s a six- 
penny piece for you, for being kind to him.” 

This promised to be an income for lliat man, as Mr. Bright had 
always a copper ready for him. This sort of thing repeatedly oc- 
curred, and everybody looked out for a chance to pay attentions to 
Bimbo m the scarlet frock. Sometimes he dropped his shoe, some- 
times his hat blew' off, but no one who w'aited on Bimbo w'ent un- 
rew'arded. They w'ere alw’ays the best of men, giving Mr. Bright 
quite a high opinion of the lower clas.ses. 

” The attentions paid to papa and Bimbo are quite as marked as 
when the magnetic telegraph manager goes out, and all the com- 
passes turn toward his umbrella, even through the shop windows, 
by magnetic attraction,” said Dick, as he met his father returning 
home with his little flock. 

Mr. Bright complacently took it all as involuntary homage to the 
beauty of his baby. 

While Mrs. Bright was out, Mr. Fairfax had called, and stayed. 
Everybody who had called and stayed on once at the Brights’ did 
so again, sharing wiiat was going in the w'ay of occupation. Airs. 
Bright would paint uninterruptedly; Mr. Bright was generally in 


ADRIAN- BRIGHT. 


185 


his study, and glad to exchange a word of sympathy in his experi- 
ments; lessons or meals were going on about in the house at their re- 
spective hours, and a visitor never put these things out. Not that 
the hours were strictly punctual — 1 do not go so far as to assert 
that; but when meals were ready the gong sounded, and visitors 
and anybody who was not occupied with affairs of greater conse- 
quence attended to the call. 

Flitters was there nearly every day, giving lessons to some one or 
other of the thirteen children. Adrian was always to be found in 
his studio, and could be talked to unless his door was locked. If 
it was locked, nobody might interrupt him on any consideration; 
otherwise, a visitor might go or come as he pleased. It was Liberty 
Hall, and nobody ptit himself out for any one. It was this that 
made the house so attractive. Dinner, too, was easy; and there 
were generally plates enough, if one did not mind irregularities in 
size; Mr. Bright always explained that the soup-plates, basins, etc., 
w^ere in use in his rooms, as if that made it all right. Accordingly, 
the philosopher of .the Washburn, when he called, was shown into 
the dining-room to wait — if he would; and he was thinking about 
it, whether he would or not, when through the folding-doors a brill- 
iant strain of pianoforte music was heart?, and that settled the ques- 
tion. He sat down and waited, and dropped into thought. The 
thoughts were too valuable to lose. He took out his note book, and 
half filled it, or more, to the flow of that cataract of melod.y which 
tossed his ideas hither and thither as the glancing wmters leap from 
rock to rock in his own beloved Yorkshire dales. He could tln’nk 
as much at liberty as he could in his moorland home under the pine- 
trees’ murmur. What a glorious gift was this musical art that let 
the souls speak thus while it flowed on and on, up and down, aim- 
lessly, as it seemed, as a butterfly, and as light and beautiful, mak- 
ing accompanying utterance of assent to deeper things. 

By which it will be seen that Mr. Fairfax ranked music none too 
high among the fine arts, also that L ttle Flitters’s playing was not 
of that extraordinarily powerful character which forces to feel 
with the feeling of the music instead of indulging in random reverie. 

He thought and wrote entranceil, and as one enchanted. lie did 
not know' what it was helped along his w'riting so well, until the 
sound stopped ; the piano closed with a satisfied and business-like 
clatter, and his thoughts stopped too. But then he had the recep- 
tive poet soul, that left him susceptible to impressions as they played 
about him; and Flitters, though no poet, flung the sweet sounds 
about with facile hand and the careless ease of long mastery of lier 
craft. And this absence of effort has a power of its own, which, 
aided by the fine, determined thought of a great master, revealed 
through the dexterous interpretation, uplifts the mind to realms of 
poetry above the strife of earth. 

Mav entered the room. 

“ Was that you playing so delightfully?” he asked. 

May was flattered by the supposition. 

” Oh, no; it w'as Day Flitters. She teaches me.” 

” You are fortunate,” he said. ” She invokes the very spirit of 
Liberty. You know the meaning of libertv, my child?” 

” I suppose it comes from liber, a book,” said May, sulkily. She 


ADRIAJq' BRIGHT. 


185 

did not like to be called a child. There were so many below her in 
that family. She felt herself grown-up while her eldest sister was 
away in Paris. Mr. Fairfax again floated off into thoiiglit. 

“It may be so,” he muttered. “ Perhaps the office of reading is 
to set free one’s thought.” 

Here all the children stormed in from their walk, and Mr. Bright 
hailed his philosopher and friend, and took him off to his study to 
do some practical philosophy, while Rosetta welcomed her “ kanoo- 
delschcs,” home with a treat. She had prepared a vast dish of 
“ kartoffeln-poof,” a favorite regale in her own country, made of 
grated raw potatoes and onions, fried like thick pancakes, to be 
eaten with apple-sauce in large quantities; indeed, she had made a 
washhand-basin full of it; and this the joyous children set to work 
to devour. But they could not make much impression on the re- 
past — not even Bobby. It is true he had eaten live stale buns that 
afternoon. It seems the Germans can consume this kartoffeln-poof 
in any quantity, and Rosetta thought the English would be equally 
unable to resist its fascinations. 

Most German cookery takes away one’s appetite, not\> ithstanding 
that it is, as they say with complacent pride, all ” schmeckt so 
schon ” with a“bischen essig iind zucker.” Vinegar and sugar 
go into everything. All that Mrs. Bright did was to suggest mildly 
that, when they had a treat again, it should be on a less noble scale, 
otherwise papa would require another dozen of soup-plates to put 
his phosphates in, on account of the surplus left for experiment. 

Meanwhile Amalasontha, having puzzled out a way to clean the^ 
sash windows, the like of which she had never seen before, by 
means of a sponge stuck on a toasting fork, was sighing, 

“ Ach, schickse! Ich wiinsch ich war tod.” 


CHAPTER XXVlll. 

“ To what a fortuitous concurrence do we not owe every pleasure and con- 
venience of our lives!”— Ficar* of Wakefield. 

There is a fatality about some circumstances — is it, or people? — 
that they deaden us. Otherwise, bow was it that ten people, gath- 
ered from among the choicest of English spirits, in the bloom of 
the nineteenth century, should have given each other and them- 
selves so little pleasure as these ten did, wffio met for social enjoy- 
ment round Mrs. Bright’s table? 

Their meeting was not fortuitous. No, they were select and care- 
fully chosen. Everything was ready provided, and written down 
for them on menu cards and otherwise; the drill and every step w’as 
planned and laid down strictly; they were told off to mot^e in meas- 
ured step in certain well-assorted pairs, and fixed in pre arranged 
seats at the table, according to names in their places; they all had 
precisely the right number of wine-glasses set and filled and changed 
W them at exactly given limes; they conversed and fed alternately 
at exactly the proper intervals, and they had often rehearsed dinner- 
parties before, so as to know' with certaint}’^ what was coming next. 
There w^as no possibility of mistake (1 liad well-nigh W'litten of es-- 
cape). Why, then, was it dull? This is on« of the great mysterie^- 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


187 

that the nineteenth century, that age of mystery, holds. Why do we 
take such a world of pains to be dull? The table-talk of ten people 
of the highest culture, even if they are not in the highest spirits, 
should leave some scraps worth recording. 1 will try to be honest, 
“ nothing extenuate nor aught set down in malice,” but 1 fear me a 
cookery-book description of a dinner-party, even of a very ordinary 
one, would have more savor than the choicest gleaninirs from the 
conversEtion of these dinner-guests. And yet Mrs. Bright might be 
justified in expecting from eiiiht or nine people standing so high in 
their own esteem some sparks of wit or originality. 

1 give my ofiicial report of it, somewhat as Hansard gives the par- 
liamentary debates. 1 offer no opinion further than my notion that 
guests at the table of Pericles and Aspasia would have shown 
more wit. 

Mr. Bright had Mrs. Nugent on his right hand and Ilermione on 
his left. Adrian was by her side, of course, and, as might be gath- 
ered from their appearance, their conversation was the cream of the 
talk. I know it was good, because it brought a heavenly light into 
their faces, a luster to their eyes, brighter than wine, or the pastry- 
cook’s best timbales, ever did or could. But I did not hear much of 
it. 1 8aw% in my capacity of mouse in the wall, Hermione’s speak- 
ing countenance, and 1 a"m certain Aspasia was neither wittier nor 
fairer; and Phidias sat by her side; that I could tell, because the 
face of this youth glowed with joy and genius, as if he had just 
acliieved the Theseus of tlie pediment. 

Linda Fraser came next to him on the left liand, and at her left 
sat Viscount Palairet, a w’ell-known connoisseur and collector of 
pictures, rich and not still young, having some ten years since 
passed that border-line of thirt 3 '-nine which Aristotle holds to be the 
perfect prime of life, the very best age one can be. Some think 
this age rather passe ; some think that then the judgment is still too 
green"; but Aristotle’s opinion is, to most, a rule of faith, stringent 
as any of the Thirty-nine Articles. He held that opinion in one 
particular book; ]terliaps he shifted his bearings ki his next vol- 
ume. He— Lord Palairet, not Aristotle— look Mrs. Bright down to 
dinner, and sat at her right hand; and opposite to him, wdthin 
easy reach of talk of mutual interest, was Mr. Fairfax, the philoso- 
pher of the Washburn, Little Flitters sparkled between him and 
]Mr, Joseph Bright, Adrian’s father, whose ej'es were mostly fixed 
upon Hermione with manifest approbation; and now we are come 
round to Mrs. Nugent again. Are not these the well-disposed 
elements ot a pleasant party? Their dialogue should be worth re- 
cording, and would be so could all these people be seen and heard 
at their best, and out of bondage to rule precisely laid down. But 
there it is. Has civilization polished us so that we shine and spark- 
le and manifest our best qualities? or has it only rounded us so 
that we aie incoherent and independent of each other as pebbles of 
the shore, and as dimmed by friction and sea-brine as they? Well, 
I am no judge; I am only a mouse in the wall. Mr. Bright’s busi- 
ness was to feed Mrs. Nugent, and make her lake chloride of potas- 
sium in lieu of the ordinary chloride of sodium with her dinner, and 
then to entertain her, which he did with his usual worldly wisdom, 
'by detailing his wife and children’s various excellences. If Mrs. 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


188 

Nugent looked bored, that may have been her habitual expression, 
lie was talking of to-day. 

“ My boy (Bambino) walked with me so nicely; he ran up all the 
doorsteps and round the lamp- posts, and shouted at the boys, and 
chased the cats. The other little shrimps we met had not the go in 
them that my fellow has.” 

Mrs. Nugent thought this was dreadful bringing up for a child. 
Hermione glanced round at Adrian with a smile of amusement. 

“ He is as active as his mother.” He left it to be inferred that' 
Mrs. Bright chased the cats and swung round the lamp-posts; but 
talk at dinner is not so tightly laced as in a court of justice. ” You 
have no conception of iny wife’s energ3"and activit.y, and she makes 
every one in her house active likewise. No irrass grows under our 
feet here. My brother .To, in his humorous way, calls it the tread- 
mill.” 

Mrs. and Miss Nugent smiled as required. Uncle Jo himself 
laughed; but then he was talking to Flitters, who always made 
eveiybody within her radius laugh. She stirred them up until she 
made them chuckle. Linda, seeing that her uncle was entertaining 
Hermione, took the opportunity of engaging Adrian in conversation. 
Mr. Jos Bright proceeded calmly. 

” My brother Jo killed his wife ’’—this with the cool air of one 
who speaks of Henry Vlll. 

” Killed his wife!” cried Mrs. Nugent, almost starting from her 
chair. ” Oh! Hermione must never marry into this dreadful fam- 
il3%” she thought. 

Even Hermione was startled at this being said of Adrian’s father.. 
Mrs. Nugent glanced round at the unconscious Jo. 

” Yes, in a manner of speaking, he slew her,” pursued Mr. Jos 
Blight. “ Jo is all for the free life of Nature, sw'ears by the open 
air, and conducted his household in true freedom — in the spirit of 
divinest liberty.” 

“But how?” asked IMrs. Nugent, anxiously. Here might be a 
clew tb the family tastes. 

“ He discovered perpetual motion. My wife defined it well as 
permanent picnic— perambulant housekeeping. Luckily Adrian 
was his only child, and had a strong constitution. A long family 
might have had a scale of constitutions, with semitones among 
them, Jo had a carriage built expressly for picnic, fitted with every 
necessary of life, and he drove out picnicking every day. He usu- 
ally took a party with him, and while Jo took them off to admire 
the view, or what not, and the servant took the horses to the near- 
est livery stable, ]\lrs. Jo had to prepare the dinner; and although 
it is capital fun having things gypsy fashion once and aw’ay, when 
-everybody is willing to help in everything and make light of make- 
^shifts, it is no light -work to prepare a blundering dinner for six or 
'eight hungry people, and ^varm the potatoes, and fr}^ the chops, 
however natty the toy may be that you cook them in; and the whole 
canteen has to be cleared and cleaned before putting to the horses, 
for in these patent cooking contrivances if you put one plate out of 
place the whole apparatus misfits.. To end along stoiy, Mrs. Jo 
got tired of living in this wa3^ and died.’’ Jos was so used to his 
brother’s eccentricities that he uevau- reficcted upon their serious 


ADRIAX BRIGHT. 


5 ^- - 


189 


side, nor upon how startling the relation of them might be to 
strangers. Eccentricities are generally found where there is genius 
in a family; some of the members are sure to be merely odd, "while 
som^e are luminous or creative, 

“ And what does your brother do now?” asked JMrs. Nugent. 
Hermioue also bent forward to listen, with some anxiety, though she 
thought half his talk was in joke. 

“ Relives in freedom, and goes out picnicking alone. He fills 
his pockets with supplies, and turns ui> again when these are ex- 
pended. He will not allow himself the indulgence of the carriage 
anil apparatus that he gladly gave his poor wife. 1 bought them of 
him,” 

” Was this an economical notion of Mr. Joseph Bright’s?” asked 
Mrs. ISugeut. *‘I have heard of people who lake to yachting on 
some such motives.” 

‘‘No, ma’am, it was purely sanitary. His dream was the perfect 
development of the human being, and he thought that ox^'gen was 
the first necessary of life. His wife was weak, and could not fol- 
low his reasoning. Our ways are different; my wife leads me, and 
we find life more comfortable.” 

Mr. Bright was not a hard-hearted man, not cold nor indifferent 
to his brother’s trouble. He was tender as a chicken, really, and he 
held his late sister-in-lavv, Adrian’s mother, in great regard. But 
Jo and Jos were both oddities, brought up on the border-laud of 
genius; their talent, though real, was ever, like the skillful, clever 
burglar’s, taking the wrong tv.dst. They lived as mental freebooters, 
with the borderers’ rough-and-ready ways, looking on the ludicrous 
side of everything first, andofteuesL; esteemingall things a joke but 
what touched their own opinions, which were vital and very serious,. 
a!ul which they held against all defiance. Spartans in bodily habits, 
the least privation of their mental food ,or freedom, the smallest 
tampering with their theories, afflicted both. 

Adrian’s mother had been worshiped by her boy during the little 
wddle she lived. He foudl}’’ remembered her twining her fingers in 
his curls and dressing him in fancy dress of foreign sort; clasping 
him to her bosom and calling him her Adrian, her Venetian boj'. 
He was born at Venice, hence his baptismal name. The gondola 
life had been lovely to them all; and Adrian must unconsciously 
have imbibed much knowdedire and perception of grace and skillful 
strengtii from the movements of the gondoliers. 

But the English picnic life w’as a diffeient thing. 

To sit in a gondola at wmrk or play, and take a meal from a pile 
of glowing fruit, snatched as opportunity came; eilher bargained 
for at the nearest market, or chosen from a boat loaded like a pict- 
ure with luscious pulp and ripened color; with now and then a sav- 
ory from an open-air stall, eaten with white bread — all this 
has a charm as of sunshine itself. 

Even now Adrian could shut his eyes and see those boats set in 
tremulous Adriatic blue, wdth quivering lines of light, or rosy tint 
from tower and campanile, leading from heaven to the nearest 
ripples round their gondola; and in the center of all this breathing, 
palpitating flush, half in sun, half shaded by great wdiite or tawny 
sails, blazoned with many a curious device, he could still shape and 


ADMAN' BRIGHT. 


190 

picture to himself these heaped treasures of fish or fruit of every 
imaginable form and hue of loveliness or of wondrous fancy; and 
round them bronzed and eager faces gazing, and sharp-prowed gon- 
dolas darting about like larger fish at play; and, further on, a tangle 
of nets and vreeds and baskets, and confusion of fluttering color, 
and quaint copper vessels catching sunshine on their burnished con- 
vexity, as flame lights flame. This, to a picnic life in all English 
weathers, though both bore the same name of open-air freedom, was 
as poetry to baldest prose; and Adrian’s mother, at heart a poet, 
feeling this fact, and the loss of sunshine, too keenly for her health, 
gave up her bruised ghost, and went to other Edens. 

To Jos Bright nothing was serious but the fact of a baker’s dozen 
of children all requiring phosphates to develop them to manhood, 
and the larger corollary to this Q.E.D. that dozens of bakers, and a 
thousand dozens of children, would never be developed because of 
a failure in phosphates; and the second great fact of a dozen doz- 
ens of problems needing his solution, in dozens of experimental 
soup-iJates; all neutralized by the third great fact not only of lack- 
ing phosphates, but of soup-plates, on account of a domestic dragon 
which guarded them for lower purposes, thus causing science to miss 
its due. 

Linda Fraser, seated between the man of her heart and the lord of 
her choice — for she had helped her aunt to arrange her table — might 
have been expected to be a brilliant in fine setting, but she did not 
shine to-night. Of course, she could not get many words from 
Adrian, all absorbed with his love; so she calmly let herself be wor- 
shiped by Lord Palairet, who admired her as lie would a picture. 
This was also done calmly, contemplatively. One does not fall in 
love— that is, not passionately — with a picture, though one may buy 
it, and expect other people to rave over it. 

On the other side of the table they were more lively, more talka- 
tive, which was natural in Little Flitters’s neighborhood. The 
■Washburn philosopher, who did not care for women’s talk in gen- 
eral, though he made an exception in favor of Mrs. Bright, at first 
brought his heavy. Turner-shotted guns to bear on that lady, but 
she, as hostess, could not give him her undivided attention. Flitters, 
who had the taciturn Uncle Jo on her other side, was manifestly en- 
joying her dinner, and not ashamed ot her youthful love of cates, 
indeed, she admitted she was glad of the opportunity of making 
herself look young by eating and relishing plenty of sweet-stuff. 

“ I can’t say a long grace before a dish of burned hash,” said 
Flitters, who did not mind approaching the philosopher on light 
subjects. “What does it matter?” she argued, “ whether I talk 
grandioso prodigoiso in B minor, or not; lam a professor as well as 
Le, and have a right to fixed opinions.” 

The philosopher laughed; he actually giggled. 

” No, 1 can’t say grace before that,” continued the daring Flit- 
ters, ‘‘nor before a tureen full of fat and floating neck-of-mutton 
chops, dashed with gherkins and sown with pearl barley; but when 
i get a jewel of topaz-and ruby jelly on my plate, or when I’m 
made to feel that the organ of smell is as fine in its way as the organ 
at the Albert Hall, then 1 am conscious of a grace going on within 
me that makes me feel truly thankful.” 


A Dill AX BRIGHT. 


191 


“ Then you enjoy dinner-parties, 1 suppose?” 

“ Do ducks swim? Do most people enjoy the good things of this 

“ But there is the question. Is not the system of dining in strict 
order of progression too artificial to produce real enjoyment?” 

“ Ah, 3 'ou mean the cook should send up the things hot and hot 
as they happen to be read.y, and not like the stars, in fixed courses. 
I suppose you don’t care to eat hare done to a chip, and then eat 
currant jelly to take awaj’- the taste of it?” 

_ No, he had meant to quote the author who says we are so sunk in 
civilization that the heathen should come to convert us, and he had 
forgotten his idea. 

Flitters praDled on on both sides of her, giving, as she said, each 
of her neighbors a turn at eating their dinner in peace, doing as she 
would be done by. ^ 

‘‘ Uncle Jo was quite chatty,” observed Gussie, afterward. 

“ Was he?” said Flitters; ” I thought 1 had to work the hardest 
at the talking.” 

“ Did you not hear him say, when Mrs, Nugent was speaking of 
paneled rooms, that they would be bad in case of fire?” 

But indeed Flitters would have been badly oil fora wit sharpener, 
a whetstone for her tongue, had she not had the northern philosopher 
at her right hand. He was absolutely bewitched with the lively 
maiden, and was eager to enlist her activity in all his philanthropic 
schemes. Yes. she should be his agent in London, and manage his 
gradnally spreading perfected area. It would be nice work for her. 
He let ids idea mature as she rattled on. Her talk somehow re- 
minded him of the musical stream he had heard as he sat musing 
and waiting in the Brights’ empty’- dining-room, when the piano, 
rattling on, carried his pencil and his fancies far away with it into 
the realms of melodious possibility. He mentioned the resemblance. 

” Why, of course it was myself practicing,” answ’ered Little Flit- 
ters. “ 1 had no notion there was a philosopher sitting behind the 
folding doors listening.” 

” It is the most blessed privilege of genius that all its emanations 
vivify some other spirit, even wdieu it is unconscious of the fact,” 


said he, earnestly. 

“lou are wanting in discernment, if you fancy that I am a 
genius,” said Flitters. “ Why, I haven’t even the outward signs of 
one. 1 know them at first sight.” 

” But hnw can you distinguish a genius at first sight?” he asked, 
somewhat anxiously. Perhaps this'’ keen young observer had dis- 
covered him. 

” I can always tell a genius; it is a branch of my profession to 
Know that. If he’s a man, his hair is long; if she’s a woman, her 
hair is short. This is infallible.” 

He looked at Flitters’s dark hair; it was wavy, and at any rate 
long enough to braid. For himself, he had next to no hair at all. 
Facts seemed to contradict her dogma. She was modest as she was 
musical, perhaps she was equally gifted all round. Delicious task, 
to draw this sunny-faced young creature out. He led the talk to 
Art pictorial. Did she love it? 

“ Well, 1 admire Mrs. Bright’s painting, and 1 enjoy the Academy 


192 


A Dili AX BKICtHT. 


when people are well-dressed, out the National Gallery is the death 
of me.” 

He was charmed with the unaffected truth and simplicity with 
•which she answered as above. What truthful lips, what a sensible 
air! How well she would manage his house in Loudon! Mr. Fair- 
fax pondered. The children all trooped in to dessert, not to sit 
down, but to wait upon the guests. They looked very pretty, 
handing about the fruit and flasks. Junia, in particular, looked a 
very Hebe as she steadily poured out wine for the guests. 

‘‘My twin Arthur and Uther, whom we call the Pendragons, re- 
mind me of two of Baroccio’s children as they bring that basket of 
fruit and flowers between them,” said Mrs. Bright, to whom a 
picture at once suggested itself. 

” They are every one of them lovely. They look like the whole 
set of Sir Joshua’s children,” said Lord Palairet, politely. 

Tom and Cinderella did not appear; ’Bella was too nearly grown 
up, and Tom was too grand. Dainty Dick had no scruples; he 
went to get his desserts, as he said. 

” jMy second son Richard — has small bones, like his mother,” said 
Mr. Bright, introducing him to Mrs. Nugent. 

” How do you do? ’’"she asked. She was bored by this irruption 
of the tribe, and did not care about the faniil.y jihysiology. 

Bambino slipped in bet'veen Flitters and Mr. Fairfax, wdiere he 
w^as petted and experimented on by the philosopher to the present 
contentment of all, and he in return popped sunar-plums into the 
philosopher’s mouth. Lord Palairet’s teeth wmubl not have borne 
this. He was thankful not to be chosen for Bambino’s attentions. 

” Where is your nectarine. Bambino?” asked Dick, who meant 
to take care of it for him. 

‘'I’ve eatened it,” said Bimbo, whose participles were formed 
on a i)lan of his own. ” Misser Foxy cuttened it for me.” 

‘‘ And your biscuit?” asked Augusta. 

‘‘ Somebody t’eaded upon it and b’okened it.” 

Flitters laughed, and Mr. Fairfax, or, as Bimbo called him. Mr. 
Foxy, laughed. How much he relished dropping philosophy and 
merely amusing himself with playful talk. Mrs. Nugent felt differ- 
ently; she had put her gloves on some time ago, and ever and anou 
glanced anxiously toward Mrs. Bright. 

But, if the last hour had been a trial to Mrs. Nugent, what was 
it to Linda, who had heard Adrian pouring out all the treasures of 
his wit and heart to her young cousin, the rival who had won all 
these away from her? 

They rose, and Linda Fraser’s darlc, vengeful eyes glared at the 
bride -elect, like Atropos, as she followed her from the room— and 
no one saw the threatening gaze. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

“ ‘ Do men read music?’ said Amphion. ‘ I thought it was in the air?’ ” 

OUIDA. 

The ladies left the table sw\armed round by the children, all look- 
ing like young Rubenses now. 

” It is a beautiful procession,” wdiispered Adrian to Hermione. 


ADUTAX BRIGHT. 


193 


“ A ‘ motive ’ for a sculptor,” returned she, softly laughing. 

Bambino took Flilters’s hand and ” iielded ” it: according to his 
own conjugation system. 

“ Make me guinp down,” he cried, standing with her at four 
stairs above the landing. 

” I can’t; I’ve got a bone in my leg,” said Flitters. 

” Can’t you get it out?” anxiously. 

” Not just now,” she said, lifting him off gently. 

” Oh. that’5 the vong vay; you’ve puttened me down, you should 
have Icflf’ed me up there. Mr. Foxy would have gumpeded me.” 

” He is not here.” 

” He’s coming in half-minuit; 1 heard him said so.” 

” You rogue!” said Flitters, catching him up and smothering 
him with kisses and laughter. 

” Oh, I say, Daisy, what’s all this about?” quoth Julia. ” Are 
you courting?” 

The two elder Brights and Lord Palairet gathered round our 
philosopher, looking forward to some delightfully deep, or else 
vague and vaporous talk from him. Adrian w’as known to be going 
to betake himself off soon, so he was not reckoned among these 
prophets and promoters of perfection; and they four did not care 
for the mild after-dinner mirth and music that was sure to be going 
on up stairs, as it always did when the young people, Cinderella’s 
friends, gathered themselves in social tea drinking as a symphony 
to the louder chorus of the dinner-party. As a rule, it is the mild- 
er, gentler section of one’s friends who attend these post prandial 
tea-and-coffee meetings. 

But Saffo Bright is coming by and by— the ardent Saffo, fresii 
from Paris, la mile lumUre, teeming with ideas, and burning to clear 
a way for tlmir immediate application. Satfo is coming, and all 
things will be different, as changed as before and after the Reform 
Bill. She w’ill let us meet no bread-and-buttery friends, such as 
poor young Cinderella of sixteen cannot choose but have. 

AVherefore should these philosophers adjourn their parliament, 
and reduce themselves to the position of listeners to milk-and- watery 
music, w’hen they might talk in semibreves and long andante 
periods of their own modulating? Hence they baited our principal 
philosopher, and would not let him wander up stairs and in the 
ladies’ chamber. Prevented acting the part of a wild goose, he suited 
himself with the role of a hermit crab, until they irritated him out 
of his shell by the feebleness of their deductions. They chattered 
about the possibility of improvement—ay, the perfectibility of crea- 
tion. (This last bold speculator was Mr. Bright— our Mr. Bright— 
Aunt Lucinda’s Jos.) Then uprose Mr. Fairfax, not physicaliy: 
but in argument, and outstripped them all in the more daring nature 
of his propositions. 

Perfectibility, quotha! Perfection had already arrived. Beheld 
that earth had travailed for some six thousand years, and had at 
last brought forth this flower of creation, this lign aloe, prototype 
01 the Assyrian tree of life, this perfected result of continuous im- 
provement from Eve’s time onward. Day Flitters, the peifect 
woman. Improvement was the w'ord; it would be inaccurate to 
say growth, for she, this crystallized outcome of all the biological 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


194 

and educational systems, was about the smallest-sized woman who 
shone— out of a show. Perfectionate carbon, and you have the 
diamond. Concent! al ion, he maintained, is an essential property of 
perfection. Day Flitters is a quintessence of tlie sort that inflates 
“ gas-ba^;s and gabies of philosophers,'’ she would say, did she 
know how she had stirred those elderlj and philosophic pulses. 1 
do not mean to aver that he actually named her name, any more 
than the parliamentary Speaker would do such an indiscreet thing; 
but his honorable friends were perfectly well aware to whom he re- 
ferred, and wagered their beards jocosely. Though philosophers, 
they were not totally blind; and being human, they liked a bit of 
fun when they were balked of a purer philosophy. 

Fairfax, the unmarried man, w’as torn in pieces between philoso- 
phy and Flitters. Adrian was gone, and no one had put a veto on 
his going. Why should not he, too, sneak off unobserved? fie 
tried it. Uncle Jo saw his move, and cleverly tempted him back 
atraiu to settle some vexed question relative to the Darwin iati 
theory. Then the brothers Bright and Lord Palairet held forth about 
growth, in feeble argument. Growth, indeed! Women, cattle- 
breeders, weak philosophers, and the rest of the illogical world 
thought growih must necessarily be defined as increase of bulk. 
Pooh!— what, then, becomes of the great principle of evaporation, 
of evolution, of, in short, every exalted theory? Increase in bulk is 
a mere question of time (“ And the phosphates,” put in Mr. Brighl), 
and what is time in comparison with eternity? And in all other 
properties, as in the intellectual growih of nations, for example, do 
we measure the Pyramid of Cheops against the Partlienon? The 
three nudged each other; the lord actually winked. They had got 
him on horseback now. 

” And beyond all this, mark me, it is not until mere growth has 
ceased that development begins. One illustration out of hundreds 
is enough. From one to twent 5 ’’-one the body lengthens; from 
twenty-one to forty-two it grows broader, while the soul or mind 
grows, and grow’s taller; from forty-two to Sixty-three ” (he was 
between these two ages— not midway), ” the soul broadens, has 
wider view^s, embraces more. In the third period of one-and- 
twenty years, the spirit, the entity, especially the religious faculty, 
develops itself, growdng, aspiring to meet its Maker. Each part of 
the human trinity takes twenty-one years to grow’^; then comes the 
ripening (a short period), and at seventy w’e fall, drop, into the hand 
of the great Maker, as he plucks the fruit he has watched.” 

There was a silence; all felt he had grown too solemn for the 
light occasion, but he was habitually high-strung; and Day Flit- 
ters’s presence had excited him to unusual fervor. iMow he can 
pause to reflect that if Day Flitters’s soul goes on growing till 
forty-two at the rate it has been doing from twenty-one she will be 
a prodigy for size of mind. But will it? This is open to a serious 
doubt, for her body must have stopped growing early. 'Will the 
soul slop early too? Even then it would be no small soul, tor it 
has evidently grown quicker than the lave of people’s souls. And 
what may her age be now? These speculations stop him in the 
midst of his tine parallels in triplets, that he was prepared to flie 
off: the analogies of body, soul, and spirit with money, riches, and 


ADRIAN BRIGHT, 


195 


wenlth: nature, work, and art; land, labor, and eapital; with that 
puzzling, intangible thing called credit to spoil the symmetry of the 
triplet form. And the three sworn tormentors, seeing that he was 
not to be drawn any more, relapsed into a talk of vintages, and dis- 
cussion of llie case of Bacon versus Bean, 

At last our philosopher escaped and hovered round Day Flitters. 
The room was full of sound, music, and buzz, and clatter of tea- 
cups. Friol looked most picturesque bearing his coffee-pot. Now 
he is pouring out the fragrant Mocha for a clergyman, and asking, 
“ Reverend, will you sugar?” Prison bars of music hold our philo- 
sopher’s princess captive. That is, she is turning over the pages 
for a youug lady amateur, an underdone amateur. Flitters thought 
her, who has been implored to play. 

” Do play to us I” 

A giggle. ” Oh, thank you. I’m too much out of practice.” 
(She had nothing else in the world to do, or did not do it.) 

” Oh, I’m sure you can think of something, some little thing.” 

” Well, you must excuse me if I break down. What shall 1 
play?” 

” Oh! something classical.” From a youth; one of those young 
men who like to twitter at parties. 

A simper. ” Beethoven or Mozart?” Underdone amateurs always 
lay violent hands on the greatest masters. 

“O’h! Beetiioven.” 

A gush. ‘‘Oh! the ‘ Moonlight Sonata.’” A mere trifle this, 
truly. 

“A dead certainty; a foregone conclusion,” thinks Flitters. 
‘‘ That luckless sonata, an ill star shone on its composition.” 

She, the U.A. of the German school, eventually, and after two 
dozen and six buttons had been unfastened, letting the tightened 
flesh at each withdrawal of the compressing kid bandage expand, 
or go pop, attacked an unknown morceau de resistance. At last it 
dawned upon Flitters, who was quicker of apprehension than most 
people, that it w^as the slow first movement of the ” Moonligiit 
Sonata,”’ played with variations composed impromptu, and taken 
as fast as the U.A. could go; nice and quick, so as not to weary the 
audience, who had a good deal to go through yet. They were 
thankful for the allegro reading, it was the sooner over. Bambino 
turned an imaginary handle by the side of the grand piano. He 
was impressed for bed. Few recognized the rest of the sonata, the 
last movement being given in the scrambly style, with cuts. 
‘‘ Beethoven turned inside out,” according to Flitters. 

” That poor sonata,” said she to Mr. Fairfax, who had at last 
caught her off duty. ‘‘ People sentimentalize upon it iust as dur- 
ing the fern frenzy they did upon the maiden hair fern. Let us 
hear our neigiibors commit themselves about it. Text. The 
‘Moonlight Sonata.’ Filling up af the sermon— gas-bags.” 

“You know the ‘Moonlight Sonata,’ of course?” said young 
Timothy to Miss Elderfon. 

” Ah! the heavenly thing. Y"es, I play it, so to speak, 1 don’t 
play it in any particular style; not like you, Miss Golightly ” (to the 
young lady wdio had just given a new reading of it.) 

‘‘ It must be awfully hard work ” said Timothy, who meant to 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


196 

tfllk of music till they asked him to sing from that ponderous roll 
of ballads he had handy by. He was looking out for an accom- 
panist. “ You must almost know it without any notes by this time, 
don’t you?” He did not mean to be satirical, but it did not really 
matter whether Miss Golightly had the notes or not. Indeed, the 
notes put her out; as a great artist said of nature, that she put him 
out. 

Miss Elderton went over to the group of children, and sat herself 
with the twins and a few others in the attitude of Charity with the 
large family. 

“And do you, too, play the ‘Moonlight Sonata?’” asked the 
philosopher of Flitters. 

” 1 wonder you are not afraid to ask such a question,” said Flit- 
ters. ” Yes, i play all Beethoven’s sonatas.” 

” All of them?” questioned Timothy. ” Is that only one out of 
a lot, then?” 

“Yes, there are many more, and all equally exquisite,” Miss 
Golightly replied, for Flitters. Like many people, Timothy had 
supposed tlie “ Moonlight Sonata ” to be the only thing Beethoven 
ever wrote. 

“ The new light does not make him much happier,” said Flitters. 

“ Does the knowledge of joys which may be unattainable tend to 
make any ot us happier?” asked the philosopher, with a sigh of the 
first magnitude. 

“ Can’t say, I’m sure.” said Flitters, all too lightly, flippantly, as 
she ran away to bring music, and musicians to the front, and bunt 
up materials for a glee. 

“ And do you play all of them?” Timothy at length ventured to 
ask Miss Golightly. 

This lady might be an accompanist. It was worth while making 
up to her, at the risk of another set of three movements. Slie rat- 
tled them off as quickly as anybody would, that was one comfort. 

“ Oh, .yes; I pla.y all of them a little bit, picking out a hit here 
and there; just odds and ends, you know.” Oh! asphodel-wreathed 
Beethoven! Is it worth while to be immortal for this? 

“ Do you sing?” asked Timothy, in hopes of the counter-ques- 
tion, “ No. Do you?” 

“ Only in church, or in glees; where, if you haven’t breath 
enough to go on, somebody else will finish it out. But, if you like 
singing, go to Miss Elderton. She has spent ten pounds and more 
this quarter upon lessons, and now no one asks her to sing.” 

One secret of this was that she always sang ten -versed ballads. 

“ What, the lovely lady opposite?” said the loosely-built youth, 
satirically. 

She was more table than handsome. He did not care to have 
her cutting in, and postponing his display. 

“I will sing something for you, if jmu will kindly accompany 
me,” he said, persuasively, and fearing to lose his chance. His song 
was an off*- hand invitation to Maud to call for him on her way to 
the flower-garden. It was more like a bit of easy, confidential chat 
than a song. 

No, he was not nervous. Did not know the feeling, he said. 

He had succeeded in his purpose, but his triumph was short-lived. 


ADRIAX BRIGHT. 


197 

"That’s a very pretty sonff,” said Flitters, who returned at its 
conclusion. " Perhaps 1 ought to say a sympathetic work!” 

” Now, why did you go out of the room as soon as 1 began to 
sing? You fihoukln’t have done that, you know.” 

” 1 had to run down with Miss Elderton to look for her lost roll 
of music. You had better go and help her to choose a song.” 

Flitters had a shocking trick of snubbing young men. She turned 
to Mr. Fairfax. 

” As I went down just now, 1 saw something moving on the 
door-mat. 1 thought it was a poodle, or a Newfoundland dog 
changing its boots. It jumped up, and I saw it was Mr. Loudun, 
taking off his goioshes. ‘ Here, I’ve come, you see, in my velvet 
jacket,’ said he. Sol saw.” 

He also wore a fine, colored neck-tie and a dirty collar, as Mr. 
Fairfax perceived afterward. Mrs. Nugent perceived it too, through 
her eye-glass, and drew disparaging conclusions. She did not 
know that it was a symbol and evidence of his being a genius. 

*” Here he comes,” said Flitters, and she set him down to the 
piano at once to accompany Miss Elderton in her song. 

” That fearful song,” whispered Flitters. ” It haunts me every- 
where. I hear it everyday. Yesterday it was howled; the day 
before it was sung; to-day it is yelled. I wish he’d drown her, 
while she screeches it out of tune.” 

The pianist was, indeed, doing his best to drown the singer’s voice, 
but she shrieked so powerfully that he had to desist. 

‘‘ That song has run through London like an infectious disorder,” 
added Flitters. 

A part-song followed this soul-rending strain. *‘ Kosebud in the 
Heather ” was sung by a battalion in charge of Mr. Loudun. 

“ Rosebud tore his hand amain, 

Little boots his cry of pain,” 

sang the chorus in Goethe’s eloquent w^ords. 

“None but a poet, in seeing those beetle-crushers, woujd have 
sung of little boots,” pursued the mischievous Flitters. Certainly 
the glee-conductor’s feet were larger than her own, which might 
well be, ” It is idealizing them as Turner idealizes scenery.” 

The Turner-worshiper endured this simile without wincing. 

Flitters set the genius to work for his fame on a piece of ” his 
own discomposing, ” she called it. It was in the lambent-coruscation 
style, inspired as he went on, as it appeared. It roused their souls; 
took them for a gallop, so to speak. A poor lady, sitting near the 
pianoforte, too stout to move easily, was stunned. She was not 
used to such blows, having always been ordered by her physician to 
take care of herself, which she interpreted literally by taking life 
easily, and fostering her double chin. But little boots her look of 
pain. Music like this is meant to cause emotion, and it does so. 

‘‘ 1 w^ould not let him play on my instrument,” said a lady who 
was not likely to have such an opportunity, hers being only a cottage 
piano. 

Some gentlemen looked to see if the wires were all safe. Yes, 
they held good. The Brights’ piano was an Erard’s grand, and 
warranted inspiration -proof. 


198 


ADRIAK BRIGHT. 


This genius's way of playing was to use the right hand for the bass, 
and the left hand for the treble, which occasioned a good deal of cross- 
ing and uncrossing the arms, like a cabman who is cold, on a frosty 
morning. Occasionally his energy required him to lay himself down 
flat upon the keys, as if he wanted to play the middle notes with 
his waist. Splash and sputter, crash, dash, flash, and flutter.' It 
was a beautiful movement. It was all movement. Flitters spoke 
of those middle passages as his “ chest-notes." 

The hero gathered himself to bestow on the unoffending ivories 
an awful pounding. Every one had screwed him or herself up 
tight to bear it, when lo! two little tinkling notes twittered high in 
tliD treble for all the result. Just two bright dots twinkling like a 
double star in the vast immeasurability of — what rniglit have been. 
But tie audience were satisfied of the power of sound presently. 
The "Festival at Valhalla" proceeded, the clatter of knives and 
tridents was prodigious; amazing the batter of wassail-skull, and 
chatter of guests, all accompanying the solemn bardic chorus which 
went on uninterruptedly. It^ was from his own cantata. Op. 3f>. 
one knew the tunes, and thought the variations were " Wag- 

" What a tine thing it is to be a genius!" said Mr. Bright. 

Cinderella came forward with a tenor, a real tenor. Flitters grew 
interested. How Mr. Fairfax wished his own voice were a tenor. 
Perhaps it was so. He had never tried it; it might be a tenor, a 
beautiful tenor, a neglected jewel. He would make sure of the 
point lo-moiTow. He would go to Sautley or somebody." 

" Are you sure he’s a real tenor?" said Flitters, softly, but ear- 
nestly. 

" Oh, yes,” said 'Bella, confidently. "He takes the A like a 
beautiful bird." 

Mr. Fairfax hoped it might be like a gay macaw. 

" Then we’ll get him to sing with Miss Nugent. But I’ll hear 
him first," she mentally reserved. He sang " By Kelia’s arbor." 

" Pooh," said Flitters. " I’d as sooii say pindphore in the Greek 
way. " 

" What was that delicious song you sang?" asked another young 
man. " I don’t know it.” 

" It was one of Mendelssohn’s." 

" Ah, I’ve been two years out of England, you see." 

" A good reason, certainly, for not knowing Mendelssohn’s 
songs," said Flitters, aside. The tenor gave them another song, 
about a female with an eye of blue. 

" Only one," asked Flitters, not of him, of anybod}’’ else. 

" She’s only seen in profile, 1 suppose," whispered Mr. Fairfax. 

Here the tenor sounded his famous A, and the world stood still 
to listen. When once he gave it forth he gave plenty of it, his one 
A, his A 1. He sang it liberally, as if he had a bet upon how long 
he could sustain his tied semi-breve. 

" I don’t call it high art to take your one good note and try how 
long you can hold on, getting red and redder in the face, and 
bursting like— gas-bags," said Flitters. 

" Not high art, certainly," said the philosopher. " I doubt if it is 
art at all." 


Every 

ner." 


ADiU.VK BRIGHT. 199 

The singer opened his mouth so terrifically that Uncle Jo took 
his forefinger and leveled it like a gun. 

“ 1 could have shot the uvula wilhout injuring the teeth,” said 
the uncle. “What song was it. Bobby?” he asked his nephew, 
who looked as if he enjoyed the music. 

“ Something from the Travi-avi-ata, 1 think,” replied Bobby. 

Many other classical pieces of three minutes’ endurance were 
worked through by entreaty, as if each one of them was sure to 
cause deeper joy than the last. 

Flitters plaved some of them. Mr. Fairfax stood at worship. 

“ Do you love music?” she asked. 

“ Only the very best.” 

“ Bach’s fugues and such like, I suppose?” 

“ Bach’s fugues are the olives of music; an acquired taste, but 
with very choice aroma.” 

She began to have more respect for him. He seemed to know 
something about it. Like a true philosopher, he was in the flabit 
of taking his cultured friends’ advice as to the best concerts he could 
attend when he was in towm, that he might enlarge his knowdedge 
of art and nature as expressed by sound. 

At these concerts he had met with Bach, and as he felt he neither 
understood nor sympathized with the spell that kept perhaps two 
thousand people mute and breathless until a player had ended a little 
tinkling on a piano in the distance, he determined to analyze his 
own impressions and theirs by cross-examination unti' he could do 
so. 

“ 1 have been at a solemn church service this mornimr,” he told 
Flitters, “and at a piano recital this afternoon. Bach’s ‘Suite 
Anglaise ’ felt like water-colors placed by fresco and oils after the 
morning’s soul-felt choral music, full of faith and glory, wdicre, 
during the organ peals of the concluding anthem, one was sur- 
rounded by one’s brethren all aglow with enthusiasm.” 

“ One feels like that on hearing Schumann’s music expounded by 
Rubinstein,” said Flitters; and tlie philosopher determined to give 
up Bach for a while and take to Schumann. lie was so appreciative 
that Flitters felt that she could talk to him not as to a pupil or the 
general public, but as to a man who really knew something of her 
art. 

She said, “ There is a broad sweep of line in Beethoven, that you 
do not get out of the two-page-power pieces that our modern classics 
give, moments musicaUs of all sorts. Take the allegro of the Wald- 
stein sonata, and, however badly played, you will at once feel what 
1 mean; the master asserts himself and overcomes the minutiae of 
the fingerer.” 

He was delighted with her elevation of sentiment, and responded. 

“As even a poor drawing from the Elgin marbles, or from 
Michael Angelo, differs in breadth and grandeur of curve from the 
neat copy of a drawing-master’s sketch.” 

“ Just so,” she said. “ Our microscopic scraps of sentiment need 
so much analysis to explain them.” 

“ Tliey are of the taste that cherishes tiny pots and scrappy bric- 
^-brac, ” said he. But he had gone deeper than she could follow 


200 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


him there. She was only strong; in music, and in the dicta with 
ij?hich Hen Grolleniclit had stored her brain. 

She looked at him. Did he really know anything of music, or 
■;yas it humbug? A spirit of mischief possessed her. She played 
iie “ original lancers,” and asked, 

‘‘ Is Vi, not the spirit of Beethoven?” 

** It is very pretty,” said the innocent philosopher. 

” Fancy her trying to palm off that stuff as Beethoven!” said the 
)or'ified Miss Elderton. 

She did palm it off upon the philosopher, who knew nothing of 
'uncers of any sort, original or otherwise. She played off on the 
test of them a scherzo, really Beethoven’s this time, and all were 
iqually well pleased; the young folks thought it was another figure 
of the lancers, few of them knew any better. 

“ It is the flavoring as does it,” muttered Flitters, who was used 
to dealing with or spoiling an audience. 

But presently she repented herself, and told the philosopher he 
should now have something truly good. So she made her way to 
the dim corner where Adrian and Hermione were enjoying them- 
selves in a civilized way, and made Adrian coax Hermione tor a 
song. Flitters accompanied her, and the result of her singing was 
that thirty copies of the ballad she selected were sold before eleven 
o’clock next morning; some bought for selves, and some for nieces, 
sisters, daughters, wives; and the composer, calling,^ on his publishers 
that self-save day at noon with another composition, was offered, 
for his copyright in the new song he brought, a sum which caused 
him to believe in his genius forever after. He invited all his friends 
to whitebait at Greenwich on the strength of that and his genius, 
and folks were made happy all round; showing what good a heroine 
can do when she takes the trouble to do anything at all. 

‘‘Don’t forget my address. Miss — no, Daisy Flitters,” said the 
philosopher, who always called women by their Christian names. 
“ Or 1 will call on you about those tickets, that will be better.” 

‘‘ No, it won’t; I am always out.” 

“ You won’t forget, 75 Gardens?” reiterated he. 

‘‘75, I shall recollect it for her,” said May: ‘‘ it is six years after 
the date of the year T was born. That makes it easy to remember, 
I will remind Day Flitters of it,” 

‘‘ I wonder how many years it is after the year she was born?” 
thought Mr Fairfax; then aloud, ‘‘At what age did ou go to 
Germany, Miss Daisy Flitters?” 

” 1 was fourteen,” 

‘‘ How long does Herr Grollenicht think you ought to study to be 
perfect?” 

“ Ah, you want to find out my age,” said she, quickly, though 
she had not heard May’s mnemonic system. 

He absolutely colored as he disclaimed the impeachment, and no 
wonder; he was fibbing. 

‘‘ Y^ou should have said I >\’as perfect already.” 

‘‘ It would be no more than the trulh,” 

He spoke seriously and sincerely, this time. Everybody was pro- 
testing to Mrs. Bright that they had never spent so pleasant an 
evening, which is a fact for a philosopher who takes the sum of 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


201 

human happiness for his line of thought-investment to speculate 
upon. The evening was commonplace enough to please Mrs. Nu- 
gent. Lord Palairet was devoted to Linda Fraser, and attentive to 
Linda Fraser’s aunt; and Mrs. Nugent dearly loved a lord. 

But a middle-aged connoisseur of pictures, even though a vis- 
count, was not to be compared with Adrian Bright; and Linda’s 
eyes still followed the unconscious and innocent Hermione with 
jealous envy. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

“ All things by scale ascend to unity.'’— P jrmenides. 

“ Our Saffo is coming home,” screamed Cinderella to Hermione, 
when slie called with Mrs. Nugent in a few days’ time to say 
” How do you do?” after the dinner-party. ” Now we shall have 
no more dull parties; we shall all be topsy-turvy. It will be so de- 
liciousl You really won’t know us in another mouth. You have 
only seen us dull, proper, and deadly”— Hermione was not sure 
about these being the right adjectives — ” you will soon see our po- 
tentialities.” 

It was a great thing for ’Bella, this of Saffo’s coming home. The 
younger girls were almost always at school, or absorbed in High- 
School work and talk; thus they were not very interesting com- 
panions for ,a girl on the borders of womanhood, full of the budding 
fancies of one who fondly thinks herself a poet; and the boys leased 
her more than they revered her. 

‘‘You must come and see Saffo as soon as she arrives. Oh, you 
will love her sol” 

And Saffo came, fresh from Paris, and therefore an authority 
upon the fashions, which she scorned; yet scorned with knowledge, 
so that none could scoff. Saffo, full of all the new ideas perpetually 
rushing to and fro in la mile lumiere, pooh-poohed Linda Fraser’s 
dicta, and substituted the law of Liberty for that of Mrs. Grundy 
— and her cousin. She looked down upon Linda with the sovereign 
contempt that eighteen always has for two-and-twenty, whose per- 
son it considers shelved and its ideas antiquated. ” Poor Linda, 
she has all the prejudices of partial culture,” would Saffo say. 

A wild, spontaneous, well-feeling girl, amazing her young sororal 
world with her audacity, twas Saffo,brimming over with all the young 
ideas that seem to burst at once into blossom and fruit as the glow' 
of 3muthful enthusiasm warms them into fervor, and sends abundant 
sap fermenting to the ends of all the branches. Full she was of 
light and fervent charity, that developed itself in good deeds and 
wishes in all manner of puzzling directions, in wild and often self- 
contradictor}'’ aspirations, beaming with fancies and odd, unprac- 
tical notions caught wiiile sitting at the feet of many ardent re- 
formers, read of in many burning books. This girl now burst upon 
their little crowded world in Welbeck Street, puzzling some, fasci- 
nating others, interesting many, and keeping them all in a whirl of 
excited amusement. Capable of turning her hand and attention 
to everything, and scorning those who from false pride or ignorance 
would not or could not work, she upset all conventions, and walked 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


202 

entirely in the light of her last new idea, directing her course and 
theirs with every dawn toward some new Utopia. 

Linda Waser and Day Flitters think that they are highly educated, 
that theirs is a good practical education, they being professional 
artists in their different ways. Saffo utterly despises (heir views, 
and upholds her own as practical; and, as she has the gift of elo- 
quence in no small measure, besides having all her text-books at her 
fingers’ ends, she is able to argue them down, if not convince them. 
Flitters, indeed, does not mind being convinced of any body else’s 
superiority, provided they are what she calls “ nice,” and she finds 
Saffo very nice indeed, being perfectly good-humored as well as 
large-minded, and able to recognize Flitters’s superiority in her own 
particular line — of pianoforte-playing. But in Linda Saffo recog- 
nizes no superiority at all; her practice in art is insular and out of 
date, her views of life are narrow and conventional, and completely 
out of sympathy wdth the growing wants of the moving age. Linda 
is even too short-sighted to perceive that it has entered upon a new 
phase at all. 

Fortunately for the family at Welbeck Street, the holidays had not 
yet begun, and they had no time to be talked to, preached to, done 
for, and improved out of their state of sleepy mediocrity, as Saffo 
styled it. She plumed herself on her extreme moderation in not 
entering at once on all her projects of reform, and hewing about her 
root and branch. She contented herself with simply setting a good 
example and laying down a few general principles, and she first 
attacked the minor points of their domestic economy, and the cos- 
tumes of th>3 girls and her younger brothers. Her theories were 
beautiful in words, and Mrs. Bright was well consent that she should 
gain the education that practical experience of difficulties in her own 
way would give her, and exercise the tact that must be used to gain 
ever so small a point that runs in cross direction to life-laid preju- 
dices. All the juniors, who, as usual, formed the Liberal party, 
were eager to help her to begin the reforms, Bobby the most so; 
but then he was a Radical. Mrs. Bright did not enter so keenly as 
Saffo hoped into these prospects of bliss and beauty. “ Old people’s 
heads are full of recollections,” she would say. “ Young people’s 
have room for the new ideas.” Mr. Bright was a stanch Conserva- 
tive; the kitchen authorities were absolute Tories, and resisted all 
innovation. Saffo bided her time, and took other measures in the 
interim. 

She was sitting one half-holiday surrounded by her court of 
younger sisters, talking with All the authority of a president of con- 
gress, and at the same time working on anew serge robe of ravishing 
lint for May, the hue a something rich and strange. May and 
Junia had been Cinderella’s two tyrannical sisters when s?ie had to 
clothe them, and prepare for them just what they pleased. But 
Saffo changed all this; they must think her way, or, rather, she 
vvould think for them till their judgment was ripe. She replaced 
’Rella in her proper rank as her lieutenant, and restored discipline 
in accordance with the ancient, natural law of primogeniture. 

’Rella and Flitters were helping her to think for the good of the 
rest. Flitters w'as likewise making a bodice out of what seemed a 
few shreds of satin. She could make things out of next to nothing. 


ADRIA>^ BRIGHT. 


203 

Saffo draped a quantity of the “aesthetic’- blue sers^e on May’s 
shoulders, and took her shears to regulate the length merely ; the 
breadth was determined by the accident of the width of the* stud, 
and this was wide. The form of tlie robe was to be simplicity itself; 
symphonioiis witli the ancient natural law. followed by the Greeks 
and all artistic nations— a form that would drape well, and flow in 
graceful lines witli every movement of a girl, whose every move- 
ment is, theoretically, a new grace. 

“ Is it not rather full?” said ’RelJa. 

“ Oh, one must have folds,” said SafEo, “ in dressmaking with a 
self-colored material, and, of course, no person with any sense of 
fltness would use another for a young girl. In making anything 
one should always think of some more elevated object of compari- 
son, raising, if possible, the subject to the simile. This is one of 
the truest principles of culture. In making this syncrisis we should 
bear in mind the example of the overlapping leaves of a rose, how, 
shadow adds exquisiteness to the color tliat is already luminous’ 
with reflections. Color so reinforced is pure and perfect, while yet 
intensely rich.” 

May pocketed the word syncrisis, and determined to play it off 
on her schoolfellows with as matter-of-cDurse an air as Saflo had 
used it. 

“ I think you might well make two frocks out of the piece,” said 
Flitters. 

“ So do I,” said Junia, who looked forward to partnership in the 
article. 

“ It is nearly enough for tw^o, Saflo dear,” said ’Rella. 

“ Amply so,” said Flitters. “ Indeed, I could make three dresses 
out of it, by ekeing it out with the lining.” Flitters, who always 
eked out her stuff by the lining to the very last raveling, did not 
see Saffo’s expression of horror and disgust, and- innocently went 
on, “ I wouldn’t mind making frocks for all the girls out of it, with 
underskirts of another color. I can always make stuff go far 
enough for anything; as I can help nine people off a mutton chop, 
and—” 

“ Make out the dinner with contentment and potatoes, I sup- 
pose,” said ’Rella, laughing. 

Saffo snipped on the even tenor of her way uninfluenced by argu- 
ment; and her quick Angers and scissors soon brought the dress into 
shape, the shape of a serge surplice tied in at the waist with a scarf. 

But, if the dress was brouglit into shape. May in it became a very 
queer figure indeed— a form that has no name in mathematics. The 
dress that was perfect in principle, and should have draped so well, 
would not answer to its intention. Saffo’s own soft dress, made 
by a Parisian dressmaker of the enlightened school, hung in ex- 
quisite folds on her tall, graceful figure. Pier long, white neck, 
supporting the elegant head and blooming face, set in a wealth of 
dark-brown hair, gave to the Jong, plain dress of the natural, im- 
dyed wool, contrast and color sufficient for delight, and to her whole 
aspect the idea of a beautiful flower set on a slender, graceful stem. 
But May was of a different length and breadth, and the stiff serge 
was a burlesque. They clothed May in the garment, and awaited a 


204 : 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


feast of loveliness, for, as a child, she had hitherto “hud the knack 
of looking nice in aDylhing.” 

They went into fits of laughter at the sight of this rational dress, 
the oulcorne of all Saffo’s teaching, and her fine theories relative to 
drapery, suitability, artistic simplicity, and what not. Even Safto 
laughed at first, though presently she and ’Rella found the intrinsic 
beauty of the garment grow upon them. Flitters led the opposi- 
tion, 

“It makes her look like gas-bags, doesn't it, Daisy?” asked some 
mischievous spirit. 

“You look just like a blue petroleum barrel,” cried Bobby, 
rustling in with the paraphernalia of his school task to see if any 
one were likely to do it for him. 

This set everybody into fresh convulsions. Bobby did not often 
have such a success, but, when he tried to add to and improve upon 
his wit, he was sent about his other business. Poor May, joyful at 
having a new dress, but miserable at the fashion of it, stood 
wretched and stilt, while everyone suggested ways of improving 
the chef d'cmvre, and altering its petroleum-barrel character. 

“ Mine is a very neat little waist if it were only cultivated,” said 
May, trying to smooth down the rebellious gathers, which came in 
all the wrong places, as aesthetic fullness mostly does. Every one 
sat or knelt in contemplation, until at length the intrinsic beauty of 
the cut and value of the principle asserted themselves and prevailed 
over prejudice, as Saffo said they would, and as conviction does 
upon a jury. 

“ See how it grows upon us all.” said Saflo, satisfied, as one by 
one found it “ not so very horrid,” and finally admired it before 
she took it off. “ And now we will aim to educate our friends up 
to it.” 

“ It doesn’t grow upon me,” said Mary, ruefully. 

“ Ah, you will grow into it in time, my child,” said Saffo, kindly. 

Poor May, with all the lanky angularity of thirteen, and more 
than all its sensitiveness, did not relish the notion of the High School 
educating itself up to an ideal of art by means of her new frock. It 
did not bring her peace, though Saffo regarded it as a grand mission 
for May to have the civilizing of so wide a field thrown upon her 
hands thus early in her life. 

What’s the use of taking all this trouble to make my dress?” 
said May, fretfully. “ when Modish & Paragon have just sent their 
circular saying they have ‘ a large selection of every-day costumes 
at nominal prices ’ ” 

“ Yes, beginning at seven pounds ten,” said ’Rella, rounding her 
paragraph from the circular. “ 1 should like to know when we 
are to save the money for making the house lovely, if we beo-iu 
buying every-day costumes at that price.” ® 

‘‘And our higher education, which is more important still,” said 
»affo. ” And the example we furnish to the world.” 

The bell rang. Being a half-holiday, it brought a fringe of heads 
to the window. ° 

^ “ Who is it? If it's Mrs. Nugent, I can’t show,” said May still 
m her new array. “ I shouldn’t like Miss Nugent to see my dress 


ADRIAN BKIUMT. 


205 

“Nobody would know it,” said Saffo, “no one seej' snvtbing 
but their own dress,” 

“ Growth is part of the great natural law,” said Flitters, satiri- 
cally, “ only I have not fulfilled it.” 

“Do slop all that frivolous talk about dress,” said Robert le 

D , “and tell me this. Was Charles the First beheaded at 

Whitechapel?” 

He was writing an essay on the British Constitution. In two 
minutes’ time he asked, 

“ Might 1 say ‘ This act was brought about,’ or must I say, ‘ This 
parliament was brought about ’?” 

“ Say ‘ This act was passed,’ ” said Flitters. 

“ No. brought about. ” 

“ Well, if you must have brought about ” 

“ But why are you so particular about tliat?” asked ’Bella, 

“ 1 think it will sound clever, that is all,” said he. 

“ I thought that was it,” said Flitters, “another of your gas- 
bags.” 

“ You have spelled Parliament with an i, like peppermint,” said 
May, released from her dress. 

“ That’s w'hy I liked ‘ act ’ the best,” said Bobby. “ When you 
are doubtful how to spell a word, put a cinnamon (synonym).” 

When Mrs, Nugent in due time came to call on Salfo, May wore 
the dress in questibn, the questionable frock. Mrs, Nugent, put- 
ting up her glass, thought it singularly unbecoming, though of 
course she made no comment, but turned to look at liaifo through 
the eye-glass. She was pleased to find that, though Saffo greatly 
resembled her cousin, Linda Fraser, she Avas not by au}’’ means so 
perfectly beautiful, while her, dress was plain to eccentricity, and 
her conversation odd. She was explaining to Mrs. Nugent her 
views upon the great original law, when that lady had time to ob- 
serve all this. 

Saffo had a clear, warm, richly colored complexion, a low, and 
not very broad forehead, with wavy dark hair Wreathed back from 
a central parting, and eyes whose color you could not tell. In the 
staring light they looked gray, then they turned green, or even 
hazel, in some shadows; when excited, they glowed like emeralds. 
They were playful, yet bewitching, eyes. Even women admired 
them, but not all women. Saffo was no perfect beauty, but a 
prettily colored creature, with a charming, loving expression, and 
beaming with animation. Her features, without being classical in 
any style — Greek, Italian, or Englisii— were delightful in their very 
irregularity. Bhe rei)resented the Gothic wildness and its aspira- 
tions toward beauty, rather than Greek calm, cultured content. 
Saffo wore no ornaments whatever; not a brooch or ring. Ear- 
rings were heathenish, in her opinion, and only fit for butchers’ 
families. 

“ Find me a glorious lake of color, called a sapphire, or an 
emerald field,” she would say, “ and I will wear it, and let all the 
world enjoy its beauty, on my arm; but a trumperj trinket, not 
worth a hundred pounds -bah! 1 should be ashamed to w'ear mere 
gewgaws!” 

Hermione was carried oflf by Cinderella, to talk about a sometime 


206 


ADBIAK BRIGHT. 


future party at the Brights, before she had time to make much 
friends with Saffo; but she thought she should like her, because, 
although very like liiiida, she looked much more good-natured. 
Adrian, healing that Herinione had called, came in and talked with 
her and Cinderella in the back drawing-room. 

" Are you fond of acting charades, Hermione?” asked Cinderella. 

“ Oh, yes — that is, I like seeing them done. 1 am not clever at 
them, I think. I have had so little practice. Once we did some at 
home, and a clever boy was acting a despairing lover, or a poet 
misunderstood, and he had to recite some lines of Byron in his part 
— that piece about pouring ‘ on human heads the mountain of my 
curse.’ They thought [this was too strong for the audience, and 
mamma would have been shocked, so they softened off the original 
Byron to ‘ And pour on human heads a mountain which is worse!’ ” 

Adrian and ’Bella were much amused at Hermione’s simple yet 
droll way of telling the anecdote, and at this genteel way of prepar- 
ing poetry for parlor representation. 

“ It made me laugh to see how well the audience w^ere satisfied 
with this reading; even when it came to ‘ That worse shall be for- 
giveness,’ nobody knew any better; and I should have known 
nothing about it either, only I was behind the scenes when they 
planned what they should all say.” 

Their distant laughter made Saffo long to leave off converting 
Mrs. Nugent, and go and join their fun. Her heart at once flew 
out to that lovely new cousin of hers who was to be. Hermione 
was so merry, so light-hearted, so joyous, delicious, so worth con- 
verting, such a sweet spring flower. But Saffo wuis the eldest 
daughter of the house, anil not neglectful of her duties. Mrs. 
Bright was out, and the visit was to Saffo. She rang the bell. 

” Bring refreshments,” said Saffo, in her poetic way, and Liza- 
buff the officious brought up the cold boiled beef. Mrs. Nugent 
again put up her eye-glass. 

Saffo had inculcated simplicity in the house, to the servants’ dis- 
may. They did not know what form of work she meant. It might 
be clear-starching or blacklead. As refreshments were wanted in 
the drawing room, the maid brought up the cold beef, and tucked 
the pickles under her arm. Doubtless the knife-tray was outside. 
Saffo took the contretemps coolly. She said to Mrs. Nugent, 

” That is the worst of having those dear, good, honest, country 
souls for servants; they have no feeling for the fitness of things; 
none of the airy, poetical feeling that makes an Oriental tale so 
charming: where you clap your hands, and at once a train of slaves 
bring fruits and sherbets, fringed lupkins and perfumed waters.” 

“ ’Bella, darling ” — she knew Cinderella w'as superfluous where 
she was—” will you kindly go and explain to Frio) that we should 
like some sweetmeats and cold coffee in those delightful pans ami 
pipkins 1 brought from France?” 

Friol despised and loathed these things, which were of the ordi- 
nary, but artistic, glazed earthenware used by the common people in 
the provinces, where what Saffo called ” the fine, antique tradition 
of art ” still lingers. They were too common in Friol’s own 
country for him to be brought to respect them here. Our own 
commonplace porcelain he admired vastly, and he could not be per- 


ADRIAK BRIGHT. 207 

suaded to send up the foreign earthenware on occasions of “ com- 
pany.” 

Saffo remembered the difficulty. 

” No, 1 will go and get what we want, if Mrs. Nugent will ex- 
cuse me one short minute.” 

SafTo soon returned, looking like Titian’s ” Lavinia, ” as she held 
a large charger filled with lemons and a ruby bowl of red fruit and 
other things that she had arranged for dessert. She was followed 
by the ornamental Friol, with his long black beard and earrings. 
Every action of Saffo’s was picturesque. Her lustrous dark eyes, 
that held a liquid depth like agates, lighted up her richly colored 
face with their brilliancy. These eyes w’ere much like Linda’s,^ 
though they shone with W’^armer, gladder light, and the boys called' 
them cat’s eyes, or gooseberry eyes, from their having a peculiar hue 
of green in their reflected shadows. People were always ready to ac- 
cuse Saffo of painting, or ‘‘ making up-) ” her face, so blooming 
were her cheeks, and so strongly, darkly pencilled her lashes; but 
Saffo did not reckon these among her charms; and, if she could 
have chosen, would have preferred a cold, marble style of beauty 
with a firm full chin, which she lacked, and which she at once rec- 
ognized as perfection in Hermione Nugent. 

Saffo’s great charm was her naturalness, her rapid movement, 
spontaneous to her thought, her unexpectedness in demeanor, and 
total absence of self-consciousness. Mrs. Nugent seemed more struck 
by her peculiarity than b}-^ her grace; but then Mrs. Nugent was a 
commonplace woman of ordinary mind. An artist would have 
been fascinated by Saffo, more so than by many a more perfect 
beauty. Everybody faded before her; their colors looked w^ushed 
out, their observations wanted character. When Saffo strode about 
on her cothurnus, ever 3 'body else looked small. 

” Oh, pray do not disturb it,’’ said Mrs. Nugent, politely, as Saffo 
tore off a handful of grapes for her. 

“It is what I had arranged for dessert,” Saffo had explained. 
“ 1 shall improve the composition when 1 remodel it, and it will 
become another beautiful still-life piece. Set those bowls here bj’- 
me, Friol, and fill the coffee cups with pounded ice and sugar.” 
She poured a thin stream of cold black coffee in the cups and offered 
cream tablets to dissolve to those who liked them. “ Is it not a 
rich bit of color?” she said, pointing to a brass tray, with high 
I’.andles, full of odds and ends of confectionery and fruits, a flask of 
wine, and a red glass goblet. “ We will put it where the sun may 
fall on the colors while w^e enjoy it.” 

“ What an odd girl,” thought Mrs. Nugent, who wmuld have 
died rather than speak otherwise than perfectly indifferently of 
even her own best dinner service. Not even Saffo could kindle her 
on anything. JMrs. Nugent moved round in conversation as evenly 
as the clock; and tick, tick is not music any more than the metro- 
nome. 

Their conversation was not worth recording. No remark of Mrs. 
Nugent’s ever was. She ahva 3 ’S said the proper thing and only that, 
and the proper thing is never oriirinal. But the Brights talked 
abundant!}’- after their visitors had left. 

“ How do you like her?” cried ’Bella, 


*208 ADRIAK BRIGHT. • 

“ Isn’t she lovely, heavenly?” exclaimed Adrian, at the same in 
slant. 

“Who, Mrs. Nugent? h’m, h’m,” said Saflo, mischievously. 

” Oh, Saffol” and they both transfixed her with reproachful 
gaze. 

Saffo repented as she remembered Hermione’s sweet face. ” She 
seems delightful,” she said, heartily, “and she is divinely fair. 
Adrian, my dear cousin, lam sure you will have all the joy that 
even we can wish jmu.” 

“Ah! you should see her singing. Her beautiful face lighted 
up with rapture adds double charm to the music as she utters her 
.exquisite self in song,” said Adrian, rhapsodically. ” She could sing 
with the morning stars!” 

“ She sings as if she had been taught by the nightingale,” says 
the enthusiastic Cinderella. “Even you would say she fulfilled 
perfectly the natural law of melody.” 

“ And the harmony of the spheres,” said the lover. 

They all chattered away more and more in variations on the 
superlative, but Adrian best expressed the impression she gave him, 
for when words failed him to utter all his meaning, and the fullness 
Df his love for Hermione, he went away and wrought out his glori- 
ous state of Vocal Art, which gave one the idea of a Muse in pas- 
sion of inspiration. 

Adrian gone, the girls talked until Mrs, Bright came in. and 
then, they had it all over again da capo. Hermione’s perfections 
seemed inexhaustible. But what puzzled Saft'o w'as, that she should 
be the child of such a mother. Surely this contradicted the whole 
idea of the gradually improving influence of time and of life’s 
experience! What must Mrs. Nugent have been at twenty, if she 
were so dreadful now? She clasped her owm mother’s hand in 
pity. 

“ 1 would not have that woman for a co-mother-in-law for any- 
thing,” said Saffo. 

“ When a man marries, is that the relationship between his 
mother and her mother?” said ]\Irs. Bright, smiling with perhaps a 
little extra good-humor, as if she had had a successful* day at art, 
and missed the infliction of Mrs. Nugent’s visit. 

“Fortunately, your relationship will not be quite so near as 
that,” said Saffo, thankfully. “ But that lovely girl, she is like the 
pearl in the oyster-shell.” 

“ Mrs. Nugent is so rude, too, for all her fine manners, and so 
prying,” said Cinderella. “ 'NYhile SatTo was away, I was amused 
to see her looking through the card-tray to see who our friends are. ” 

“ 1 am not ashamed of my friends — in the card-tray,” said Mrs. 
Bright, laughing. 

“ Though perhaps we are proudest of the others,” said Saffo. 

“ I make no invidious distinctions; their being in the ctrd-tray 
is an accident,” said Mrs. Bright. 

Saffo, fiery by nature and French by education, could not admire 
Mrs. Nugent’s stony British coldness, any more than she respected 
the reserved force of Linda Fraser. Y^et, she seldom broke out in 
expressed dislike of people as she had done to-day of Mrs. Nugent. 

JSlie smoothed the gold-streaked fur of a beaver-skin, as she sat on 


ADHCAJq- BETGHT. 209 

a lo\v cushion, wonderiug how people could he so negative and so 
proud ot it. 

Everybody played second fiddle to Safto, and so she wished it to 
he, of course. But she liked them to play, and not only to listen 
for her playing. Mrs. Nugent did not play at all, but kept a critical 
ear open. Otherwise she was cold and dead, and to be dead was, 
according to Saffo, to be nearly, if not quite, corrupt. 

“ 1 can imagine the sports at Mrs. Nugent’s, the weak music and 
sweet tea, and the neat, insipid recitations, where they purse up 
their lips with propriety before beginning— ahem, commencing 
— the feebly-flavored sentiment, flat as the dregs of wine; though 
that lovely Plermione must play among them like sunshine or a 
limpid brook. How can she have retained so much freshness in 
that artificial atmosphere? I thought all flowers perished, in those 
air-tight cases.” 

And so Hermione would have perished, like a lark fluttering and 
heating itself against the bars of its cage, but that, besides the un- 
usual gift among young women of presence of mind, she possessed 
a full measure of two other of the lesser moral virtues, patience and 
humility. 

Hermione was always ready to be amused, as Safifo to amuse. 
They were made to be loving companionsv. They fitted each other 
like question and answer. Though lively, neither of them was ex- 
clusively witty nor pointedly funny. Hermione knew nothing of 
wit as an art or as a practice, so she was not too far advanced to be 
able to laugh good-humoredly at a riddle, or forgivingly at a pun. 

Saffo never made a pun— that horse-laugh of wit. Her fun was 
light, playful, Aristophanic; for she held mirth to be the proof of 
civilization. She could not reconcile herself to finding in cultured 
society the non-habitual smiles of the laboring classes, whose mouths 
are used only to swallow and scold, to grin and guffaw. 

Little Augusta entered with two notes, one from Linda Fraser, 
and the other from Mr. Fairfax, both relating to a boating expedi- 
tion the Brights were planning on the Thames. 

“ Can character be decipherable in handwriting?” thought 
Saffo, as she compared the small and exquisitelyfinished calligraphy 
of the philosopher with the uncial letters of her cousin’s handwrit- 
ing, which gave her sentences the force of large-text copy. “ Hand- 
w'riting well suited for luggage labels, or to address great brown 
paper "parcels,” said Saffo, ” but not at all for love-letters or for 
soul outpourings.” But then, Linda never poured out her soul; 
she had little of it, certainly none to spare, and it was of too dry a 
quality to pour. ” And at one time I was impressed by this great 
style of ‘ fist ’ as representing large-mindedness; until 1 found it 
oftenest meant empty-headedness.” 

That sharp, prying, little red-haired Gussie, was pumping Cin- 
derella as to what tliey had been talking of, as she had obligingly 
brought up the notes mainly with the hope of learning who they 
were from. Augusta represented public opinion, or the inquiring 
mind of the lower house, in the Bright family. 

How picturesque the girls looked to their painter-mother’s eyes 
as they grouped themselves yonder in the low July sun. The eager 
little Gussie, with the eyes of mingled brown and green, like 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


210 

Saffo’s, and gay colors spread al)out her everywhere, like Joseph’s 
coat. The little puss took after her mother in her love of colored 
finery. How is it that the warm-blooded temperament so often 
manifests itself in this why, whether of the red or the dark com- 
plexion? 

’Rella was a lovely, graceful girl, rising seventeen, as her father 
said, who often looked through the^table dictionary pieparatory to 
the purchase of his future Derby runner. ’Rella had blue eyes, and 
fjlorious yellow hair, and the clear complexion that the golden 
tressed race often have. Her complexion was the pride of Mr. 
Blight’s heart; and although his wdfe had the same beauty, he 
attributed it in ’Rella entirely to the brassicaceous diet he laid such 
stress upon. The fact is, Mrs. Bright was a B’raser, and she had 
broiidit that lovely Scottish complexion and the warm hair into the 
family with her. 

“ You were talking of Mrs. Nug(3nt, 1 know,” said Gussie, who 
hail cross-questioned the girls until she discovered it, as Mr. Fairfax 
had taught them to do in that tremendous game called ” clumps ” 
that he introduced among them. 

“ She doesn’t like us, because we don’t keep a coclion.'* 

” A cocher, you mean,” exclaimed the horrified Saffo. How is it 
that the French cannot bear that word any more than we can what 
stands for female dog? 

This stemmed the easily turned tide of Saffo’s thoughts. 

Was it well that the children should use a variety of languages 
habitually, and in this hap-hazard way? 

“ A^e are reverting to the one original language in this house. 1 
Ihrak, since we mix them all. Do you think we are altogether wise, 
mamma, in having so inau}’^ foreigners about us?” 

” Altogether wise, my darling, it is difficult to be. With so many 
of us, and so much to be done, we have to think of what is most 
convenient.” 

Cinderella told of the of Lizabutf bringing up the cold 

beef and pickles for Mrs. Nugent’s afternoon refreshment. Satfo 
thought that, for all that, which was merely an amusing trifle, it 
were well to have English servants. 

” Ought we not to be patriotic, mamma, and employ our own 
country people? Is that not a corollaiy of the great primal law?” 

” The question is not so much what we ought to do, as what we 
can persuade other people to do. Our English servants have grown 
too knowing to enter a family where there are thirteen children, in 
a large house in a brow'n street, with only a foreign man-servant. 
In real life we have to make things suit our convenience.” 

“ We cannot always live by principles, which are the poetry of 
life,” said ’Rella. 

“Oh, ’Rella,” said Saffo, shocked, “you wmuld undermine 
everything.” 

“ No, ’Rella,” said Mrs. Blight, ” I don’t mean that. The high- 
est principles are never in our way. It is only theories in the dis- 
guise of principles, the trammels we take for principles, that fetter 
us and cramp our energies. Minor things, matters of convenience 
and the management of our time, may be arranged according to our 
individuallikiug, Fill your time with the best you can do; we 


ADRIAiq- BRIGHT. 


211 

must let some things go. 1 do not love machinery more than Mr. 
Fairfax does, but I should be sorry for myself to have to spin and 
weave, and make my own candles; though I like to see other peo^ 
pie doing it, and looking picturesque. If we have real work of our 
own to do besides living, we must make life easy. Burke allows 
that ‘ there is such a thing as a salutary neglect.’ ” 

Saffo was still unsatisfied; this was driving too near the Spanish 
mailana to please her. The easer, ardent soul finds it so dillkjult to 
acquiesce'quietly in the idea that whatever is, is right. It can trust 
no experience but its own. Her mother saw this and respected her 
aspirations. 

“ I was married at seventeen, my child,” said Mrs. Bright, ten- 
derly, “ so I have had all my twenty years since (longer than your 
whole life, my Safto), to go on with my education, or, rather, to 
educate myself in.” 

Cinderella burst in with an air of conviction, bringing the talk 
back to earth, and the necessities of Welbeck Street. 

” It is a comfort to have a handy man in the house. A foreign 
man-servant is a useful being. He will do so many things that an 
English man-servant in any branch will not dream of doing. He 
will clean boots (s«mietimes) and cook, and turn his hand to many 
things besides looking respectable (?!) to open the door to visitors,” 

What would Mrs. Nugent have said concerning the respectability 
of the man looking like a gondolier who announced her arrival on 
that very afternoon? But, as to his turning his hand to everything, 
the cold" beef and pickles would never have been brought up in the 
drawing-room had not Friol been engaged at that time in cleaning 
out and scrubbing down the larder, which an English footman 
would have said was ” not his place.” 

“ For you, my dear,” said Mrs. Bright, especially addressing 
yafifo — ‘‘ for 3 mu, to whom I wish all manner of true riches— in- 
cluding thirteen children—” A squealing was heard below, which 
interrupted Mrs. Bright’s paragraph. She vanished. A mother’s 
ear is so near her heart, that she lakes the train whistle, or a cat 
squealing,- for her infant. 

SatIo rose from among her cushions and her thoughts, and took up 
her two notes, Mr. Fairfax and Linda both accepted the Briglits’ 
invitation to join the Nugents and themselves in a water-party on 
the Thames. It came off the next day. Little Flitters was, of 
course, among them, and she, who had never before handled an oar 
in her life, was soon busily occupied in teaching Mr. Fairfax ‘‘ to 
feather.” Adrian in another boat, rowed his beautiful Hermione, 
and her mother, wrapped in shawls and in all ihe stale possible 
in a pleasure trip to Teddingtou. Linda Fraser did not enjoy her 
afternoon; she found herself in a large boat with Mrs. Bright and 
Cinderella, rowed by hired watermen, and only escorted by her 
uncle who was busily inattentive to her, being occupied in bottling 
off specimens of Thames water for analysis, and filling the bottom 
of the boat with damp weeds and discomforts of his collecting. 

At Teddington they saw a smart steam-launch, whose appearance 
gave rise to much animadversion on the part of Mr. Fairfax. And, 
what was more interesting still to several of the party, in a punt 
close by the lock they perceived an artist in a white hat, sitting 


. ADRIAN BRIGHT. 



Bketcliiug the interest iug subject of a moss-grown stump, with the 
shadowed mass of the green-tin<red pier of the lock gates behind it 
to relieve ita form and give a gentle contrast. 

“ What on earth is the man painting?” asked Flitters, who saw 
nothing on earth or water to paint at that particuar spot, though the 
surroundings were filled with subject. 

” He has found peace, and he is trying to give it form,” said Mr. 
Fairfax. 

Mrs. Bright and Linda at once recognized the white hat and 
noble sketching-block of Mr. Prothero-Wilson, the artist of calm 
places in Yorkshire, and he at the same moment hailed Adrian and 
the Nugents. The recoanition seemed delightful to the painter of 
peace until he saw Mr. Fairfax, his verbal foe of the gentle dales and 
Y'orkshire villages, whom he knew well by sight, though he did 
not know his name. Of course, on a point of art they must at once 
quarrel. When there is so much of beauty to be enjoyed, none but a 
fool would plant himself determinedly where the very least of it 
could be seen. This, put into more parliamentary language, was 
the sum of Mr. Fairfax’s criticism on the artist’s choice of subject. 

Mr. Prothero-Wilson looked superior, and set him in his place at 
once. 

” The truly cultivated eye does not seek excitement, but is con- 
tent to see beauty with the eye of his imagination. What does 
Fairfax, the great critic, tell us? I venture to quote/rom memory. ‘ I 
find entertainment in exploring foot by foot every flat cross road in 
England, yet all my best enjoyment is owing to the imagination of 
the hills, coloring wdlh their far-away memories every lowland stone 
and herb.’ I consider this justifies my choice of subject for my art, 
and I suppose no one will think his own opinions should override 
those of the great Fairfax.” 

Flitters was in fits. She at once detected the situation that this 
Mr. Fairfax was the immortal Fairfax in question, though she had 
never thought of him before as the author of such fine books. She 
fancied he scribbled nothing but pamphlets, as he lounged meditat- 
ing to her music, with his pencil in his hand, having a scribbling 
spasm occasionally. 

‘‘ I would on no account gainsay the opinion of my namesake,” 
said the philosopher, “but 1 should look upon this as a general 
statement, to be referred only to his own idiosyncrasy.” 

” Circumstances alter cases,” put in Flitters, more flippantly, and, 
perhaps, niore lucidly 

Mr. Prothero-Wilson bowed distantly to this pert young lady, to 
whom he had never been introduced. 

This chance meeting occasioned a division of the party. The gay 
steam-launch belonged to Mr. Wilson, and his drag was waiting 
for him at Kingston. He offered tc take the party in the launch to 
meet the coach, that they might go for a pleasant drive through 
Richmoud Park on their way" toward Loudon. Mrs. Nugent and 
Linda B'raser were both willing to add this change to their pleasure, 
as Mrs. Nugent elegantly said. The wet weeds were stowed inside 
the carriage, tucked comfortably round the legs of the servants, and 
the new departure was carried out by all but Baffo aud Daisy Flit- 
ters, who both remained contented in the charge of Mr. Fairfax. 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


213 

They traveled furthest, notwithstaudintj; that the others had four 
highly-mettled steeds before them, for Saffo and the philosopher 
talked themselves into another world, and Little Flitters had to 
jump up after these gas-bags to fetch them down again. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

“ The gods above want nothing, and men below approach the gods in pro- 
portion as their wants are few.”— Socrates. 

The Briirhts were having their house decorated, which was the 
cause of their not being able to fix a date for their promised party, 
their festival, the party that they cared about — not merely a dull 
dinner. You cannot seize opportunity in London; opportunity 
seizes you and pinions you, whatever you may be about, at however 
inconvenient a season. You are in the position of a man who is 
being helped on with a light new overcoat, and left alone as soon 
as his arms are safely pinioned in the sleeves. All that is to say, 
the workmen will come to you now, or not at all till the next in- 
convenient period. 

The wise householder puts workmen off on no consideration ; 
and, being wdse, he stays at home and enjoys the smell of the paint 
and the fragrance of the workmen with their pipes, as they placidly 
digest their luncheon off the all-pervading onion in a nook between 
the wall and the shrouded pianoforte in his drawing-room, as best 
he may. If he absents himself, the workmen will not waste their 
sweetness upon desert air, hut will set about a better-appreciated 
job. Foolish householders go out of town during these ember weeks 
with their families, only to find on their return that the men have 
not begun the painting, though they have torn down half of the old 
papering of the walls, leaving them an agreeable study in light and 
shade; the w^eather has not hitherto been propitious for varnishing; 
the kitchen lire is still given up to the cookery of solder, or that 
mysterious white confectionery in buckets which looks like the 
filling of meringues; and the paper you selected for your own 
bedroom has yet to be made at the factory. 

As the Brights could not just now give a party for the Nugents, 
Hermione was asked to go and spend a long day with the girls, to 
make friends with Saffo, and have a good talk about the outlook of 
culture from the highest hill ranges round Paris. 

“Why did they call her Saffo?” asked Mrs. Nugent and the 
world. “ It suggests invidious comparisons.” 

“I believe she was christened Sophy,” said old friends of the 
family. She was so; but she chose to retain Saffo, her childish 
nickname, saying it was humbler than the glorious appellation of 
Soph a, Wisdom, which she dared not appropriate while 3'et in her 
neophyte condition. Clever, vivacious, and just eighteen, she in- 
tended to come out with edat after her two years in Paris and a 
previous year in Germany. She was imbued with the young ideas 
that a e shooting about in all directions in the three great capitals 
of the world, mostly hanging fire, but occasionally exploding like 
fireworks in liveliest coruscations, to die out as suddenly as they 
rose, in person, as we know, she resembled her cousin, Linda 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


U4. 

Fraser, only, if not quite so handsome, much better-natured. By a 
fortunate coincidence, her coming out was contemporaneous with 
Adrian’s engagement, and with the forthcoming decoration of the 
house; three obiects which she proposed to celebrate in an entertain- 
ment altogether grand, novel, and delightful. 

Saffo at once look up her position as manager of the house, ousting 
Cinderella from her place of rule, a circumstance which the younger 
sister took entirely in good part, as leaving her free to write her 
present tragedy and others; uniil she found tliat Saffo’s ways were 
erratic, and that at any moment, when the inventive world- reformer 
liad darted off at a tangent to her great sphere of world-reform, 
Cinderella must hold herself in readiness to cater for and supply the 
many mouths that were daily held up to be fed in that famil}^; 
otherwise their father might take that opportunity of utilizing his 
cooked materials, and make them poudings de phosphate k la 
Siemens, or a hyposulpitine of beef-bone (in Latin), served with 
electricity sauce, or an amalgamatine d, la Jos Bright. 

At This moment the Brights’ front door was being fitted with the 
six necessary pieces of brass-work ; at least, these w^ere being selected, 
and Flitters stopped Augusta’s music-lesson that she might give 
the family her advice, and aid Iheir choice from a card of “ art pat- 
terns.” Flitters dearly enjoyed a laugh and talk with the elder 
girls. Saffo was in a hurry to achieve beauty. 

” I don’t think I care much for any of these things,” said Mrs. 
Bright, when showm the engraved plate patterns. *Mrs. Bright was 
busy painting, and only gaTre a casual glance at anything but her 
model; but she acted as moderator to the council. 

” Oh, mother, you know yon like things of use to be likewise 
things of beauty,” began Saffo, who had a relish for “ art furniture,” 
and always set up a theory to fit everything she liked. 

” And I know you admire the old metal knockers and bells 
abroad,” said ’Bella, eagerly. 

” Indeed I do,” said Mrs. Bright, glancing again at the card and 
finding no famil}^ likeness engraved thereon. ” When I see the fine 
old wrought-iron balconies of foreign towns and of the olden time, 
I often ask an imaginary public. Are we civilized, that we have 
forgotten these things?” 

Saffo looked ecstatic; she examined the card of art patterns more 
closely, and felt that the showy Birmingham brasswork hardly 
realized this ideal. 

“ 1 side Nvith mamma,” she said. “When you come to think 
of it, tliese things are all superfluities. Besides, why should we 
inflict the maids with so much unnecessary work?” 

‘‘]\ry dear girl,” cried ’Bella, ” do tell me what you think un- 
necessaiy. Not the things, surely, for they are only a knocker, 
letter-box, lock, bar-handle to shut the door with, and visitors’ and 
servants’ bells, and just the lamp for the fanlight above the door. 
Is it the material you object to?” Cinderella was anxious to learn. 
Perhaps Saffo had already developed some nev/ principle in door- 
handles. 

” 1 was thinking of the time and labor in cleaning it ail, for it 
must be kept bright,” 


- AT)EIA]Sr BRIGHT. 215 

“ T'es, indeed,” said Cinderella, meditatively; “ and you know our 
present lock has a glory all round it with rubbing. 

‘‘ Six pieces of braaswork take half an hour each day to polish,” 
said SalTo, unconsciously imitating her last pet lecturers way of 
ar^^uing. ” If you add up the wages and cost of a maid’s time for 
thirty years, we should find it cheaper to let a man with a soul come 
and beautilj'- the door to that amount of time and cost. 

Mrs. Bright, if she heard this close calculation, must have thought 
thirty times three hundred half-hours a figure of speech; for she 
made no observation, nor objection to having an artist employed 
on her front-door to the extent of five hundred days of working day 
length. Saffo probably thought the old lock and knocker would 
go on being useful to the end of time, for she did not dip into par- 
ticulars. 

” 1 suppose it would not be difficult to get a man with a soul?” 
asked Cinderella. 

” Not at all,” said Saffo, confidently. Girls have no doubts. 

” Souls are common enough,” said Flitters. 

” But the sort of soul?” urged Cinderella, diffidently. 

” Oh, we must not be too particular,” said Flitters. And in this 
promising spirit they set to work to seek the desired article. ‘‘ I 
know inamHua thinks it injra dig. to Dm* sex to see a woman scour 
the steps in all weathers,” said Saffo, after deep tlmught. 

” With her back to the audience, too,” said Flitters. 

” ATe might improve that work into beauty by means of mop, 
pail, and costume,” suggested Cinderella, reflectively. 

” She would have plenty of audience then,” said Flitters. 

” Tiles are so expensive,” sighed Saffo, ” and we have so many 
alterations to make before we can reach anything like a high ideal.” 

’Bella echoed her sister’s sigh. 

‘‘We have such an awful lot of English furniture. Do let us 
have a sale, mamma.” Mrs. Bright felt she had rather not go so 
far as that. ” No, not bailiffs in the^house. ’Bella misinterpreted 
the Burleigh-like shake of the head. ” Oh, no, only a sale. And 
let the brokers give us money to buy lovely things' with.” 

Mrs. Bright again shook her head, and explained her meaning. 

‘‘ Public opinion permits no such means to even a good end. It 
does not do to tamper with public opinion. A sale almost always 
means that something hns gone wrong.” 

” And so things have gone wrong, mamma,” said the fiery Saffo. 
” There is ha 'dly anything in the whole house that is perfectly 
right in principb.” 

‘‘And yet we arc safer guides than most people,” said ’Bella. 
‘‘ How fearfully blind the rest of the world must be!” 

‘‘ Perhaps painting the steps might do,” suggested Flitters, with 
a view to consolation. 

” It would at least do away with that ghastly sepulcher whiten- 
ing.” said Saffo. ” It would be permanent enough, I suppose; for 
they say painting preserves stone, when they smear it in all the 
wrong places. We might let the same man paint them.” 

‘‘ AVith ‘ Cave Canem ’ and a border. Delightfull” said ’Bella, 
who rejoiced in all these new opportunities of expansion, ” Dar- 


ADRIAi^ BRIGHT. 


216 

ling Hermione will have so much to learn. When shall we ask her 
to come and spend the day, mamma?” ^ ^ ^ 

She must come and see us when Adrian is at Mr. Fairfax s, or 
else we shall not get a bit of her,” said Saffo. 

Soon a commission came for Adrian, from one of our great ducal 
families, for an elaborate monument to one of its members who had 
fallen in battle, and Adrian went down to the duke’s priucipnl coun- 
try-seat, to study the position and surroundings of Hie memorial. 

” We shall be able to marry upon this,” reflected the eager lover, 
as he determined to put his whole streneth into the work, which was 
unlimited in design and cost, and capable of being treated with 
much poetic feeling; and the Brights were glad of the commission 
as a proof to Mrs. Nugent of Adrian’s prospect of making a fortune 
as a sculptor. 

One day, when Adrian was staying at the duke’s house in the 
country, Hermione went to Welbeck Street by pressing invitation, 
to spend the day, ” a long day at Art,” as Saffo wrote. 

“ It will be of great advantage to darling Hermione to see our 
ways before she is married. It will give her experience,” said 
Saffo, simply. 

The boys bail an (/[Mme holiday too, which made it particularly 
inviting for Hermione; while Mrs. Nugent, who supposed that the 
girls wanted most to talk over the preparations for the wedding, 
cautioned Hermione strongly not to give way. to any of the Brights’ 
notions concerning the fashion of the bridemaids’ dresses and other 
particulars. 

When Hermione arrived at the Brights’ house she saw the man 
with a soul at work on the street-door. It made the house draughty, 
certainly, because he could not get his lights true to tone, if he 
painted outside; and the street boys made remarks upon his com- 
positions, and these criticisms frequently took an actionable turn. 
So the door stood open. 

The letter-box was painted to resemble the Roman Bocca di 
Leone, and had already received not a few pasquinades and per- 
sonal remarks, though, as Mrs. Bright had bargained for a design 
in strictimonochromc, it was not so conspicuous a portal as the artist 
wished to make it. One bell only was left for the door signal, an 
old German-hanging bell-handle, that would never need scouring, 
its dinginess being its beauty. This replaced the ordinary door-bells 
of supply and demand, as Flitters called visitors’ and tradesmen’s 
bells. 

Mr. Bright thought soulful painting a long job, but he looked re- 
signed and trustful. He had boundless faith in his wife, and was 
not uneasy about his daughters, besides being a quiet man, of easy 
disposition. So long as he could muddle about with his phosphates, 
and dabble in home-made disinfectants, he was tolerably happy, 
even under the infliction of house-decoration, and an ardent grown- 
up daughter. Yes, he was happy, even though Saffo, with Dick’s 
help, made a garden on the leaden roof of hi.s laboratory, and stood 
a plant in his chimney-pot, which he only complained of when the 
watering came through to his fireplace. But he did not grumble 
much ; his experiments with phosphates having been very successful 
lately. The theoretical Derby runner was in good training, and 


ADKIAN BRIGHT. 


Sir 

Mr. Bright bid fair to evolve a real live animal out of a mountain 
of theory. He explained ins system to Hermione, and showed her 
with pride a large tinful of freshly pounded phosphates. Ue also 
showed her a heap of bones and egg-shells that he had just carefully 
baked down— semi-carbouized, as he called it— and made brittle 
enough to pound readily in a mortar. He even ottered to let 
Hermione pound some for him, but Salfo and ’R«;lla declared that 
she could not possibly spare the time for pounding. They would 
come themselves the first spare time they could make, and have a 
good long morning at pounding. 

“ The cook says papa makes her oven in a dreadful state,” said 
’Bella, as the girls hurried Hermione away, ” and that is why we 
can never get a decent pudding. But, as master is otherwise an 
easy man to get on with, she consents to overlook this fault of his.” 

” Poor ’Bella fares worse than any of us,” said her sister. ” For 
1 still leave her responsible for much of the detail of the daily house- 
keeping, while I attend to the broader principles. It is good disci- 
pline for her, though occasionally it works inconveniently; for, say 
she is deep in composing her new tragedy, pai)a tells her he recom- 
mends ‘ Brussels sprouts in preference to spinach, as containing a 
larger percentage of potash,’ and he ruins her fifth act forever.” 

Tom Bright, the eldest of the boys, who shaves twice a day or 
oftener, and who was twin with Satfo, admired Hermione pro- 
digiously, and always declared he could cut out Adrian even now, 
notwithstanding his having been first in the field, only his generosity 
made him forbear to do so. Kevertheless, he made a point of help- 
ing to entertain Hermione. He told her that when the beetles got 
into his father’s compost, he said, ” Leave them alone, they all 
make phosphates.” 

” 1 am beginning to dread victuals that have any phosphates 
about them, especially eggs,” said Augusta, who was a sharp chikl 
of ten. ” Papa grabs the shell almost before I have eaten the egg,” 

” I believe he buys the eggs for the sake of the shells,” said Cin- 
derella. “He’d like them at sixteen a shilling that he might get 
more shells.” 

” Eight shells give an ounce of lime, ’Bella,” said Mr. Bright, 
coming in to see if the children’s play -room fire was in cooking 
condition, for the dining- room was given over to the decorators, anti 
he wished to. place some raw material to advantage, ‘‘You children 
would not be the fine family you are if it were not for the lime we 
have put into your bones, with milk, porridge, and other phos- 
phates.” 

‘‘ Oh, papa, X didn’t mean you to hear. But 1 really think you 
do buy beef for the sake of the bones, and celery for the sake of the 
waste leaves.” 

‘‘ My dear, I am a specialist on the perfectibility of tissue, Saffo 
and you are what we might call generalists. The generalist widens 
the views of science; the specialist applies them.” Hermione was 
interested and amus<?d. 

“■Well, girls,” said their brother, ‘‘ if you come to theories, X 
should like to know who grudged a bay-leaf from their spreading 
bay- tree for the tomato-sauce? Would you believe it. Miss Nugent? 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


218 

they said, ‘ Find a yellow one!’ What would your favorite Greeks 
and Romans have said to that?” 

“We have taken up many beautiful theories since you were here, 
llennione darlinc,” said Saflo. when they were left alone, “and 
developed ever so many of the French philosophers’ glorious ideas 
on civilization. We are all training ourselves for woman’s noble 
career in life. That reminds me, you, who are so soon going: to 
begin the career, should come and train with us; you have no con- 
ception how delightful it is. Don’t blusii, darling; I didn’t mean 
that you are not prepared for your career, but perhaps you have not 
yet thought of it in its widest' sense. So few young women do; or, 
when they do, they narrow it to the idea of being what some one 
calls the married maid-of-all-work with the title of mistress. Cin- 
derella and 1 mean to learn how to do all things for ourselves, and 
to train up our girls in that way.” Hermione had never heard a 
young lady speak so very plainly before, and perhaps looked her 
surprise. Oh! you dear pet, of course I don’t mean our babies, 
hut our maid-servants, and mamma’s maid-servants, and all those 
over whom we have any influence, such as our sisters, and Day 
Flitters, and yourself. So we make the house the base of operations 
for the transmission of beautiful ideas throughout the world. The 
home is a focus, as it were, the very heart of beauty. You too will 
soon be the center of a radius, the central star of a system. That is 
the exalted view yon should take of a fine position.” 

This sounded lovely to Hermione, but too wide for her 2o grasp 
all at once. She had looked forward to housekeeping as tL system 
of tasteful daily dinner ordering, and counting over the piles of 
house-linen, and such little details put into a neat routine; Saffo’s 
views seemed broader and higher. 

“ Y'ou have no conception how ignorant girls are, to begin with. 
We were so too. I don’t mean to exempt ourselves from blame; 
we are as bad as any, or should have been if our father and mother 
were not themselves so wise, and they have brought us up with the 
use of our limbs and our senses. But even I — well, I don’t mind 
confessing my incapacity to you— but one day I wanted to wash a 
flannel petticoat before giving it to a poor old woman. I actually 
washed it piebald. Fancy a girl in the nineteenth centur}’ not being 
able to carry out the first principles of cleaalinessl We should be 
astonished if it were not so common.” 

Hermione had never considered this at all. Realty, this day was 
going to be very profitable to her, she thought, as showing her how 
wide were other people’s views of life. 

In seeing throughout the house so many instances of burlesque of 
the thinking world’s favorite theories, Mrs. Bright found an in- 
exhaustible fund of amusement; and, so long as she could with grav- 
ity maintain her own position of moderator, she did not fear to let 
her girls evolve their own education in this way. 

Meanwhile it was not unsalutary for Hermione to see the side 
Issues of fine problems as solved by practice in the hands of youth- 
ful, and therefore ardent, experimenters. Mrs. Bright, and the rest 
of the artistic and thinking world, aimed at beauty of life for her- 
self and others. So did Saffo, but with a difference, and perhaps 
the chief difference was that Saffo plunged the theories at once into 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


2iy 

endeavor. While unpractical persons of classic feeling talked of 
garlanded Greeks at their symposia. Jack Bright said Saffo wanted 
the “ cabby to put on a wreath of roses and fuchsias while he drank 
his cordial!” When the Brights setup a principle, the}' aired it, 
and rode the hobby hard; and as each member of the family had 
principles, and acted up to them, their house was; as their friends 
admitted, full of the liveliest interest. 

(Saffo’s latest theory was to work out the higher civilization; so, 
though she stroked society the wrong way, she did it with the finest 
motives. The younger girls at first rebelled against doing work of 
any kind. ” Why should they, when they kept four servants?” 

” You may not always keep four servants,” said Saffo, ” aud yet 
you will wish to remain mistress of the position.” 

” I really could not wash a plate, with all the bits of fat and 
mustard sticking round the edges of it,” said May, the daughter 
next in age below Cinderella, who made Saffo angry by calling her 
High-school lessons ” work,” a title which Saffo would by no means 
recognize. “ The very word ‘ school ’ means leisure, ask May if it 
does not.” 

But May did not know, though she would not confess ignorance. 

” 1 would tie a sponge on the end of a long stick and rub it 
about,” said Junia, the next in descent, considering Saffo’s domes- 
tic problem. 

” A short stick would serve your purpose equally well,” said the 
more practical Julia. 

” Or use paper first, as Rosetta does for the knives,” said the 
shrewd little Augusta. 

But they one and all agreed that there was no need for them to 
do any work at all; they did not mean to marry poor men, and 
there was quite time enough when thej' became poor old maids for 
them to learn nasty, useful things. So Saffo’s personal influence, 
great though it was, was wasted upon all the younger females of 
the family excepting Cinderella, who looked up to her elder sisler 
as a noble-minded character, suited to be the heroine of a book; and 
Saffo, like most female reformers, turned her attention to making 
out-door proselytes to her dream of perfecting the world; of which 
work she reserved to herself principally the Ingher departments. 

But, though the girls did not like work, the boys took in the theo- 
ries and practical civilization, as paraphrased to them, with avidity. 
Like some famous authority vdiose name was always on Saffo’s lips, 
and of whose successful labor-saving they had often heard, they 
were ready to make one saucepan (apiece) do for everything; glue, 
apples, candle-wax (which they clarified), and lead for molding 
bullets, Dick dropped the candle-grease about for use, as he called 
it, for Rosetta to rub her flatirons.upon. Stirring scenes occurred 
sometimes. While Dick rushed after his bullet-mixture that the 
cook had “ stupidly removed from the fire,” Bol)by ate up Dick’s 
well-spread slice of bread and marmalade. Saffo to-day made some 
(stiff) pie-crust on her drawing-board for Hermione’s refection, but 
she had not finished it when her friend arrived, so the bride-elect, 
or proselyte-elect, sat with her in the breakfast-room, gaining an 
appetite for the tart, wdiile Saffo wenUon with her work. Tom 
Bright, of course, gave his advice and assistance. 


220 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


“ Here, hand me that sky-blue ruin, Tom/’ said Saffo, who was 
now making a custard. She explained to Hermione, “That’s my 
name for London milk. I despise myself fordoing these household 
duties,” said Satfo, after a pause. Though she really thought she 
cooked very well. “ One feels so virtuous and self-righteous after 
it. Yet when one has been busy, and tearing up the ground for a 
whole day, it is either all eaten up ” (Safifo’s syntax was inferential), 
“ swallowed in a moment, or else at night one does not know what 
has been done. O culture! Is there no such thing as the soul?” 

She generally chose the vocative case for her outpourings. 

“ But your comfort has been increased,” suggested Hermione. 

“ Bah, what is mere comfort? We have ‘ mistaken comfort for 
civilization.’ And, oh! to think that, meanwhile, 1 might have 
unpapered the walls, and begun to paint angels and ministers of 
grace—” 

“ Defend us!” said Tom, and, indeed, Hermione thought the 
same, considering the litter the whole house was in, besides. 

“ Just think how miserable my father has been made all this time 
by that wretched man at ihe door,” said the sympathetic Tom. 

“Papa would not enjoy it, perhaps, during the process; but it 
would be ultimately for his good.” 

“ But you are such a slow-coach at painting.” 

No one like a brother for unvarnishing a truth. Saffo looked 
-wounded, but this was a truth. 

Having, like other nobly minded young ladies, joined the [vyrle 
society, immediately on her return from Paris, Sa'ffo went out and 
ofleied to paint the living-room of a cottage, bringing her paint-pots 
with her to save time and show that she -was in earnest. She, like 
the other amiable and enthusiastic young persons, w^as smitten ’with 
the notion of “ bringing beauty home to the people.” 

The cottage walls were bared, and the shelves littered with paint- 
pots and plates of color kept moist in water. The children were 
kept at home to stand as models, until the school board interfered, 
and Saffo paid the fines. The cottager sat, in easy attitudes, as 
Socrates, Plato, Cincinnatus, and who not, to the great improVe- 
nient of his mind. But he bargained for his pipe meanwhile and 
Saffo, who felt sick with the fumes of Bristol bird’s-eye, had to 
tear herself from study of the life, and go out to make studies of 
foreground foliage for the academic grove, and the weeds turned up 
in Cincinnatus’s subsoil plowing. 

This took her so long that the paints got dry in their plates, and 
the mugs and beer glasses remained unusable by longholdino- of her 
tools, like the illegitimate use of the soup-plates atliome, whereby 
the family were often put to the inconvenience of taking their soup 
from shallow plates, or from breakfast cups. The cottage was at 
length bored by these things. The master spoke out, the mistress 
laid the tools aside till called for, and hung her every-dav bonnet 
on a hook near Socrates’s head. Saffo was discouraged. She con- 
fided to her mother her conviction that the Kyrle society is wrons- 
me.^ns^^ fl^at there is no elevating the poor by these 

Mr. Bright sent an every-day painter to cover his dauc-hter’s fres- 
coes with two coats of stone color, and the cottage will breathe 


ADRIAN- BRIGHT. 


221 

discontent with the upper classes evermore. The hoys consoled 
8affo, and promised to help her to paint her own room instead of 
unappreciative cotta^res, if they could get leave to decorate it in this 
way. At first she found their help a. greater difficulty than the 
cottager’s bird’s-eye, so she artfully set them to parts of the work 
they w-ere likely soon to tire of; and they resigned office, all but 
Tom, who was prevailed upon by flattery to sit occasionally as a 
model. 

“ Oh, my Hermione! I trust 5 ’^ou do not think me entirely selfish 
and superficial,” sighed Saffo as she took her friend up to her own 
room, where she was busy at work on as many vast subjects as the 
room had panels of plane surface. 

“Superficial!” echoed Hermione, in astonishment. “ 1 think 
you quite wonderful, and, as to your being selfish, you seem to wish 
to work for all the world.” 

“ Is it selfish to do all this for myself and my own improvement ” 
— Saffo s\ve])t round the whole panoramic horizon of her room — 
“instead of working for others’ elevation? 1 often perplex my- 
self with this query. And yet, 1 think not; for if I raise myself 1 
show others it is possible to rise, and here I am free to stud}’^ the 
beautiful without being limited by others’ convenience. But 1 
feared you might think me superficial because t see beauty in every- 
thing, and try to follow ft in every direction. I feared at first that 
you might like all things to be usual, and proper, and— deadly — and 
such people always judge one hardly for not being yet perfect.” 

“ I know so very little of art that 1 never think of using my 
judgment at all,” said Hermione; “I want to be taught how to 
look, before 1 could dream of judging.” 

“ Ah, that is beautiful,” cried the enthusiastic Saffo, “ that is the 
right spirit to receive art in; yours is the really right principle.” 

Hermione felt pleased, though she hardly knew what she had said 
or done to meet with such gratifying approbation. She dared say 
no more for fear of spoiling what had gone before. There was a 
long pause, which Saffo employed in moving the furniture and dis- 
turbing dust, and in over-estimating Hermioue’s philosophic caliber. 

“ How difficult it is to get on with a girl who has no principles,” 
at length said Saffo, who had gone ahead in her thought. 

“ No principles! I should think so. An unprincipled girl is of 

all things ” began Hermione, who thought she might venture 

thus far in judgment. Saffo took her up. 

“ 1 mean one who never docs anything on principle. Who has 
no notion that there is beauty in a mechanical principle, and never 
dreams of understanding one.” Hermione felt her infirmities. 
“Now, directly you and 1 see what the Yankees call a ‘notion,’ 
we both enjoy it as if it were a work of art. It seems to make us 
crazy to make inventions too, and follow a hundred arts. In fact it 
is only one arl, only we find it in ever 3 dhing.” 

“ You praise me too much, dear Saffo, in thinking I see half a 
quarter of what you see. I really am quite blind; only I think I 
understand how one art tells upon another.” 

“ That’s just it,” cried the easily saiisfied Saffo, who readily saw 
every perfection in one so beautiful as Hermione. “ Since 1 learned 


222 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


the art of dressmaking, for instance, 1 can actually draw figures by 
the back seams of their gowns.” 

” 1 think one may like a great many arts, as one may like a great 
many people,” timidly ventured Hermione. 

” Oh, so do I. 1 am alw^ays trying a new career. Sometimes I 
have on)}' lime for one career, and sometimes I can only get in half 
a career a day. I want to sing, I w’ant to paint, to be a cook, to be 
a great reformer — everylliiug. Mamma says I should take up one 
line professionally, that is, earnestly, and just refresh myself with 
the Olliers.” Hermione thought this very good advice, but doubt- 
less there were many lights to see it by. ” Well, I can’t do it. 1 
can no more fix myself exclusively to one art than a bee can gather 
honey from only one flower.” Tom came up to help to arrange 
the studio, fiermione remembered the Fripps’s studio, and per- 
ceived that dust and mildew are concomitants of art; as likewise 
dead game and rotten fruit. As Tom removed this foul fowl and 
these moldy grapes, he incidentally mentioned that their last pigeon 
pie was gamey from having been hung too long. 

Saffo loftily ignored his remark, and went on somberly to Uer- 
mione. 

” If a double-minded man is unstable in all his ways, what must 
he be who has many little proclivities, many leanings, that pull 
him this way and that?” 

” It depends upon circumstances and his own toughness, I should 
say,” said Tom. “He might go all to pieces, jou know', or roll 
whop down a declivity.” He pitched the spotted apples out of win- 
dow at the children in the yard, and the fowls on the knife-and- 
boot-hoiise roof below. 

” Yes, 1 dare say it depends a good deal on circumstances and 
habit,” said Safto, dreamily. 

“ When we have made a habit of anything,” observed Tom, “ we 
often go on mechanically, like the omnibus conductor who lets him- 
self be gently rattled on his perch. It is no affair of his, circum- 
stances ca’Ty him onward.” 

Hermione laughed, and then turned to examine the cleared wall- 
spaces with interest. 

“ I have an idea for painting my room,” said SalTo. ” A group 
of camels,” she pointed out their situations in the blank, but 
scrawled, wall. ‘‘ There a boundless expanse, a group of pyramids 
liere, and a few palm-trees, up in the corner; all life size, you 
know!” Hermione was amazed. Well she might be! “ Tom has 
promised to sit for me. He sat for me v'esterday, didn’t you, ohi 
fellow?” 

She brought forward some heavy Austrian blankets, and draped 
him Arabian 'fashion, as Odenatus of Palmyra. He began to 
yawn at once. 

” 1 don’t believe in those ancient fellows,” he said. ” They seem 
to have worn the grf'atest amount of clothes with the least possible 
amount of comfort,” 

‘‘jMow then, an attitude of easy dignity. Take this scroll,” and 
Saffo gave him the newspaper of the period, concerning the Brad- 
laugh case. 

‘"He wanted his book and a footstool, yesterday,” Saflto ex- 


ADRTAK bright. ' 

plained to Hermione, “ To-day he is not so luxurious,” and she 
began to paint. 

^ “ Look sentimental now,” Tom smirked like a photograph. 
“Now throw in an intelligent expression, please. No, not as if 
you were saying ‘ I twig,’ but only just look intellectual, or as if 
you w’ere listening to Longinus.” 

Tom’s “ front ” hair was parted in the middle, the rest of it was 
short as plush. 

“ Hair cut like stubble can’t flow,” said Saffo, despairingly. 

“ Can’t you put a fancy lock flowdng here and there from your 
own iraaginationr’ suggested Thomas. A.11 this was novel and 
entertaining to Hermione, who had never seen painting trom the 
life attempted by an amateur before. She thought it immensely 
clever, though the portrait was not, as yet, flattering to Tom. 

A few minutes longer of the attitude, then a fearful yawn and a 
rosy flush, totally changing the flesh tint. 

“ Oh, dear,” and the Austrian blankets fell. “ Let me look at 
what I’m like.” 

“Oh! 1 had just got into the work, and now the position is 
quite gone.” 

It is always difficult to paint from the unprofessional model, 
which is one cause of the “ portrait of a gentleman ” iivariably 
looking wooden, being, in fact, the “ portrait of a lay-figure,” who 
sits quietly after the gentleman is gone. Tom was not more trying 
than most sitters, being on his best behavior before Hermione. Soon 
there was another call to arms, but Tom was going, he could endure 
no more of it. 

“ Stop, Tom, 1 want arms and a bit of neck.” But he had 
vanished. “ The boys have no culture,” said Saflo, despondingly. 
“None of them but Bambino.” Her partiality may have blinded 
her here, for her baby brother, ceiat three years, bad not helped her 
much as yet in her pursuit of art; though he often reminded her of 
the great masters, and though he often ran into her room and looked 
rapturous, and said “Bitty;” wdiereupon she hugged him, and 
called him her “ precious.” 

“ Bambino is so cultured— no — what is it? for one can’t say he is 
cultured exactly, yet the result is the same. Bambino quite civilizes 
us, softens us.” 

“ Children are so graceful and so sweet,” said Hermione, who 
loved them. 

“ They are so simply natural in all their actions, that it comes to 
the same beauty as we aim at,” said Saffo. “ They are so full of 
love, hope, and admiration.” 

“ Do we then cultivate up to Nature?” said Hermione. 

“I suppose we do, or ought to.” A pause. “ What do you 
think Tom altered the motto above my toilet table to?” 

“ What?” 

“We live by admiration, soap, and love— of number one.” 

“ Not a bad motto for a looking-glass,” said Hermione, laughing. 

Saffo went on painting for some time, Hermione a’so trying her 
’prentice hand at art, using Saffo herself as a model, as she looked 
up at her work from her low seat while painting a white abutilon 
just above the dado. Saffo at length broke the silence. 


224 : 


ADRIAN^ BRIGHT, 


“ O, Hermione ” (vocative case again) “ I can’t help feeling at 
times that we live too much for beauty. ” Plermione gave an in- 
voluntary glance at the ugly face of the Palmyrene— “ beauty of 
sounds.” To one less enthusiastic than Saffo, the distant music 
would have sounded like Gussie playing No. 40 of Czerny’s 101 
Exercises, with distracting w'ant of observance of the various signs 
of expression. ” Beauty of dowers, of skies, and colors, and moon- 
beams ” — Londoners are not usually oppressed with the weight of 
these beauties — ‘‘ and beauty of our Bambino.” Her little pet had 
just rushed in to ” see what Salfo ’bout.” ” It really is too Syba- 
ritic.” Bambino pulled away at the tail of her long hair. This 
was too exquisite to be long endured. She brandished paint-brush 
at him. 

Hermione wondered what her mother, or others, would think of 
the Brights’ as a too luxurious existence. Bambino let go Saft'o’s 
long hair, and hugged her tight round the neck, and looked en- 
chanting in flushed playfulness as Saffo disengaged herself from his 
smothering embrace. 

” You’re a Greuze, you charmer, you’re a Greuze. Oh, that 1 
could paint you as you are!” 

” Shall 1 hold him for you?” said Hermione, coaxing the cherub 
over to her side, and beginning to tell him the wonderful but veri- 
similar history of Toui^ Thumb. He stood in rapt attention till it 
was concluded. 

” You’re a Donatello,” cried the equally enraptured Salfo. 
” You’re a real Donatello. Never was such a child for looking like 
the great masters!” 

Salfo succeeded in making her portrait of him look like one of 
the great early Mexican or Assyrian masters. It was perhaps 
fortunate that they were interrupted before she began her contem- 
plated portrait of Hermione. Fortunate it was for the family peace. 
Salfo might have learned a great truth. Tom might have consideied 
it libelous, Adrian might have — well, let us not dive into hypotli- 
esis. A second great truth might ha\e revealed itself to" Salfo 
likewise, viz., ” that the love of beauty, and its achievement, do 
not always go together.” 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

“ Fais ce que je dis, n’imite pas ce que je fais.” 

” A CALL to arms, a call to knives and forks. There is the gong.” 
said Salfo. ‘‘Let us come down to tea.” And she caught up 
Bambino on her shoulder. The house smelt savory of cookery, 
even above the varnish of the hall. 

‘‘ Hallo, flelds of asphodel!” cried Tom, who returned from a 
bicycle drive and detected the onions. 

The man with a soul had poured out some of it (/.«., the soul) 
upon the entrance-hall, which was now all over fresh varnish on 
the painted floor. Blocks were laid as stepping-stones, with planks 
placed on the blocks here and there to prevent people stepping info 
the varnish while sticky. The blocks slid away under the tread, 
and the planks tilted up in the most hazardous manner. Mr. Bright 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 




226 


looked intensely miserable as he took Bambino over the balusters 
from Salfo, and held on tight to the railings to prevent himself go- 
ing with the block that was sliding away under his feet. He handed 
the child on to May, who was skating away cleverly, and she passed 
him on to^ the nurse at the head of the kitchen stairs. The actual 
baby w’as in his cradle up- stairs, and was not allowed to run the 
risk of this break-neck middle passage. 

As the dining-room was undergoing decoration, the family all as- 
sembled in the children’s play-room in the basement for a general 
stout tea in lieu of dinner. The younger boys, as they came home 
from cricket, were snouted at to come down by the area. 

The Brights, since Salfo’s return, had lived in a chronic state of 
improvement, and their house always reminded one of roads that 
are “ up.” Mr. Briirht looked unhappy when his own quarters 
were besieged, and chief centers, such as the hall. His family 
begged and implored him to go out of town during the alterations; 
but he said, with some truth, that he should be always out of town 
at that rate, so he remained at home, exercising faith, patience, and 
careful footsteps. 

The disturbance of his dinner did not trouble him much; he 
thought of that as incalculable, and as far beyond his speculation 
as a new comet, or a sporadic case of earthquake. Dinner was a 
matter left in wiser hands than his. Tom said of his father’s faith 
that it was neither pantheism nor pot-theism, while to Mrs. Bright 
meals were things that grew spontaneously, like mushrooms. As 
before, the housekeeping was still mainly left to Cinderella and the 
good-natured cook, who did everybody’s work but her own. 

Little Flitters had tea with them, and the boys gathered together 
like hungry eagles from all directions, scenting provender. Her- 
mione felt lost among so large a party. To her the rustling arrange- 
ment of their seats was bewildering; w'hat would be their talk when 
it was all let loose? It was fortunate the little ones below the age 
of Augusta were in the nursery, for the nurse had recaptured Bam- 
bino. 

“Now, boys, begin with brown bread,” said Mr. Bright, 
“ Brown bread is best for the bones, is it not. Miss Nugent,” Her- 
mione, who was not sure, did not like to assent for fear of making 
herself unpopular, so he answered himself, “ It is full of phos- 
phates, the bone-forming material.” 

“Try some flawns, Hermione, I made them myself,” said Cin- 
derella, pointing to a dish that looked a failure retrieved. She 
meant it for flawns. 

” What are flawns?” asked Jiinia. 

“It is an old English dish. Don’t you remember in Ingoldsby, 

‘ The flawns and the custards had all disappeared’?” 

‘'Flam in French,” said Saffo. “We used often to get it in 
Paris, but it was not made in this way.” Saffo spoke simply, not 
disapprovingly; she was indulgent over the attempts of her fellow- 
artists. “ That reminds me, I wonder what has become of my 
custard and jelly, and the tart that I made this morning?” 

Nobody had seen them; even the boys looked eager rather than 
guilty. 

Scones were served on a large broken plate, a square one with a 
8 


ADlilAN BRIGHT. 


226 

corner knocked out of it. Friol sighed audibly as he set this lordly 
dish ou the table before visitors. He had had words with Saffo 
about it that very morning. 

“1 saved this fine piece of ware from utter destruction,” said 
Saffo. ” It is but a large potsherd truly, but what a glorious color.” 

” It’s aesthetic,” said Augustus — he pronounced it atlieistic. 

‘‘ That’s what it comes to.” said Tom, laughing. “ Everything 
thai's ungodly you seem to like.” 

j\lr. Bright indulged in a bowl of celery soup with lentils, not be- 
cause he liked it, but the Times correspondent’ leconimeuded it as a 
specific against gout, a possible future attack of which Mr. Bright 
thus wanted off. 

]\Ir. Blight, on the principle of feeding the fire of genius, helped 
Flitleis to so much curried duck that she ate what she could and 
tucked the rest under the skeleton. Saffo’s sponge cake, which 
was meant to be the pride of the table, cut like old kid gloves. It 
dill not taste much otherwise. 

‘‘ Ce n’esl point de va,” observed Augusta, purporting to mean 
that ir was ” no go.” 

” These cakes will not rise with me,” said Saffo, vexed at this re- 
sult. ” Things have a wicked knack of going wrong with me for 
no reason wiiatever.” 

” There are never results without causes,” said the horribly sen- 
tentious May, who never let one forget that she attended tlie High 
School. ” You may depend there is some scientific reason for it. 
Perhaps you beat your eggs in a hot kitchen, and then the air ex- 
panded in the globules before the process of cooking commenced.” 

Safio said nothing to the dreadful child, but the words secretly 
strengthened a resolution which w^as fast growing up in her to forego 
all the delights of coming-out and growm-up-ness, and go back to 
develop her intellect for another year at a finishing-school of prac- 
tical science. Hermione was not so strong as this; she felt at every 
moment more crushed and wondering; but going back to school 
did not occur to her, luckil)'" for Adrian’s respect for the laws of 
chemistry and the duration of his cousin May’s precious life. 

” ].,ook here, Saffo, is this the way you meant your tart to turn 
out?” asked Dick, wiio had uneartlieil the questionable tart from 
under the phy-room fire-place, where she had put it to cook among 
the hot ashe.>, on the beautiful Oriental and natural principle, and 
where it had been altogether forgotten wdien the fire went out. “ I 
thought it was some of papa’s phosphates — it looks like a phosphate; 
and here’s a jumble too. It really is not worth w'hile making jum- 
bles at home when you can get them so good at four-a-penny.” 

The supposed jumble w^as Saffo’s jelly, which had evaporated to 
the size of a jumble; but it w’as not so good, as Dick said, who tried 
it, and chipped off little bits for other amateurs with his pocket- 
knife. as it could not be taken otherwise out of the pan. Nobody ate 
Df Baffo’s tart, nor even of the sponge cake, but Mr. Bright, who 
encouraged Saffo’s cookery. 

“ Papa makes so many egg-shells bj' it, that’s why,” whispered 
Dainty Dick to Flitters. 

Mr. Bright did not seem to mind the failures, he finished them all 
off as phosphates. 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


327 

“ I have been seriously applying an aphorism 1 believe in,” said 
Saifo, trying to divert her visitor’s attention from the arts she was 
less perfect in. ” I believe that talent is capital, therefore the 
family should not let it lie idle, that is, undeveloped. This will 
help to account for the— hem— the state of transition you find us in 
to-day.” 

‘‘We are always in a state of transition, 1 think,” growled Tom, 
half audibly. 

‘‘ Onr father and mother set us a beautiful example, and I try to 
do what I can, with Tom and Cinderella’s help, to forward our 
progress in art.” 

“ And cookery,” Dick added, somewhat sardonically. 

” Yes, dear boy, and cookery, as you say,” assented Saffo, com- 
placently. ” The younger members of the family have not devel- 
oped their gifts yet.” May looked as if she knew a thing or two, 
though Saffo might not suppose it. “But lean already discern 
the prognostics of what will be talent in all of them.” 

“ What is my line?” called out one. “And mine?” cried another. 
“ And mine?” “And mine?” 

Hermione felt as if she were surreptitiously smuggling herself 
into the Sorbonne, or entering the family of the Muses. Flitters 
looked unutterably mischievous as she whispered to Gussie some- 
thing about G major. 

“ I must not prophesy before you,” said Saffo, loftily. “Harm 
might come of it. But" in one of you I discern the gift of literary 
excellence, in another that of oralory, the greatest of charms, the 
greatest of powers.” 

“ That’s long-tongued Jack, I know,” said May, satirically, 

“ Another of you has a faculty of deep thought that expresses 
itself in aphorism,” 

“That’s me,” said Dick, the bullet- niolder, who used few 
words, but those loud and incisive, 

“ In olden time,” said Mr. Bright, “ they used roundabout speech 
to express simple thought. Now we have complex thought, and 
try to fit it into telegraphic phrases.” 

This was Dick’s way. 

“ 1 like speech better than writing,” said Jack, “ Speech, when 
it is done with, is done away with; writing is only the same sort of 
rubbish left to lie about.” 

•’ i hate domestic industry and literature both,” said Little Flit- 
ters. “ Industry means leaving balls of worsted with four knitting- 
needles rusting in a few inches of gray sock; and domestic litera- 
ture is the kitchen ink-boitle, and the servants’ messages to the 
kitchen-stuff man, and a rusty spear-point pen, and the cook’s 
letters written on her mistress’s stamped letter-paper.” 

“ That is about what the Education Code has done for us,” said 
Jack, who knew. 

“Besides setting men and women by the ears,” said Flitters, 
who assented. 

“ But that is not the way with us,” said Julia, in defense. “ Our 
foreign maids knit quickly enough to make their knitting of some 
use, and they have nothing to do with the kitchen stuff man, and 
they don’t write many letters because of the foreign postage.” 


228 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


“ Rosetta does, because she baa got a schatz ” (sweetheart) “ in 
Dtisseldorf,” said little Augusta, eager to impart information. “ Do 
you like her to have a schatz, mamma?” 

“ My dear, I’m very glad she has a schatz— in Diisseldorf,” said 
Mrs. Bright, smiling. 

” This is a gloomy view of progress, my children,” said Mr. 
Bright. 

” Miss Nugent will think we are of the Heraclitus school of phi- 
losophers,” said awful May. 

” Oh, dear, no; I’m sure I should never think of such a thing,” 
said Hermione, quickly stammering out a disclaimer. 

Mrs. Bright was convinced of her innocence of the charge. 

Hermoine was not sorry when Flitters caked May to come to her 
music-lesson, and there was no more classical or philosophical learn- 
ing to stumble over. Flitters, ordinarily such a decisive or pro- 
nounced little person, had been unusually silent during tea. It is 
true, she had no chance of predominating where the more emphatic 
Saffo reigned and governed. 

” We ought to have asked Miss Nugent to excuse us for bringing 
her down here in the basement,” said Mr. Bright. 

” Please, don’t call me Miss Nugent. 1 feel so very babyish 
among you all,” pleaded Hermione. 

” But Nature gives us an argument in favor of basements,” said 
May. 

“ A tree must have its roots in the dirt, 1 suppose,” said Flitters, 
hurrying her on. 

“The dirt below, the flowers above,” said Sallo, as she again 
took her friend all to herself, and, skating over the varnished hall 
by means of the slippery stepping-stones, they went up to the draw- 
ing-room, out of hearin^f of Clementi’s Gradus ad Parnassum, by 
which footholds May hewed her way up the Mount of Music, and 
they sat in the twilifc.ht singing and discoursing of music, and of 
the musical parlies Saffo meant to give in order to show how far she 
had advanced on the road to the higher civilization. They were in- 
deed in a state of transition, and the nurse had given warning, 
though she changed her mind about it as soon as the varnish was 
dry. "" 

“ 1 hope you like this room as I have arranged it,” said Saffo., 
“ It didn’t do at all as it was; it was too full, and 1 abhor superflu- 
ities. 1 have formed it now upon the plan of the Persons’ draw- 
ing-room on Cheyne Walk. You know the Persons, of course?” 

“ I never heard of them,” said her friend. 

“Oh, you soon will; everything that is perfect is found at the 
Persons’, and they have nothing that is not perfect.” 

“ Perhaps that accounts for the emptiness of tlie Brights’ draw- 
ing-room to-day,” reflected Hermione, “ if it is formed on the model 
of the Persons’.” Indeed, it appeared that the one perfect thing to 
be found at the Persons’ was the enthusiasm that every one brought 
there. 

“ Their drawing-room is truly refined,” pursued Saffo. “They 
have no carpet, and no rubbish, and no gas to distract the attention 
from higher things. Hardly anything is in the room but a piano 
and a pair of silver-branched candlesticks. X have a dim remem- 


ADRIAiq- BRIGHT. 


229 

brance of a carved band of ebony round the windows, but the moon- 
lUht played so exquisitely among the frames of vine-leaves and 
other foliage growing outside, and sparkled upon tlie river so de.. 
liciously, and the mu»ic swelled so grandly through the echoing 
empty room, that I am not quite sure of particulars. There wuis 
nothing obtrusive, and the. company were all so interesting, and we 
talked of such lovely things, that one did not notice the background 
much,” 

” Quite like the ‘ Moonlight Sonata,’ ” said Hermione, who 
thought it was easy and inexpensive to furnish upon the plan of the 
Persons. It was less easy to find a seat in a room furnished on such 
chaste principles. 

‘‘ Chairs do away with attitude,” said Saffo, who was tuning 
her guitar. 

” Take the piano-stool, and let us have some music,” she added, 
seeing Hermione look about for a seat not piled with draperies or 
music books. She preferred a camp-stool, however, and took it 
near the balcony where Saffo stood watching the moon rising above 
the chimney-pots. “ It was not more glorious on Cheyue Walk, at 
the Persons’,” 

Sallo looked more ecstatic than ever as she sang, ” Che faro senza 
Euridice, ” to the guitar, sitting meanwhile upon the window-ledge. 

It was very sweet, this song by moonlight; for 8affo sang musi- 
cianly, and with the highest motives. She meant to civilize the pass- 
ing public, and keep tliem from the public-house, after a plan in- 
vented by herself. She was in good spirits in the company of her 
darling friend, and would have liked to bubble over with song out 
in the street itself with her guitar; for she was in love as much with 
music as with painting, having given up Signor Rolipolipoffski and 
his commonplace drawing-room ballads, and taken, under Flitters’ 
advice, to searching out the hidden treasures of music for herself, 
reveling daily in joys of fresh discovery. Glllck was her latest 
mania. Her young strength rejoiced in his vigor, in his dramatic 
fervor. 

Hermione, whose musical nature vibrated to every transient emo- 
tion, and whose higher, inner life had always been starved by the 
dullness of mediocrity in her examples, was charmed with Safifo’s 
way of bringing the greatest masters’ c«)mpanionship into her life, 
and making tliem give, as it were, their sanction to her schemes. 
She was ready to be a convert to Saffo’s idea of regenerating 
society by means of finest music, distributed freely and impartially 
as the breeze that stirs. 

” The gift has been freely poured out on us, ’’said Saffo, who rev- 
eled in her own fine, flexible voice, and had been already aston- 
ished to find in the unpretending Hermione a vocal organ of ca- 
pacity even superior to her own. ‘‘ It seems our duty to impart it 
as freely as we have received it, as all lofty souls are loath to 
copyright their thought or patent their invention.” (Saffo spoke 
without book here.) ” We' are not impoverished, but rather en- 
riched, by so doing. If 3 '-oung ladies are the flowers of this earth, 
by all means let the flowers diffuse their sweetness.” 

To Hermione, this doctrine was new, large, and delightful. In- 
stead of laughing at Saffo, as a lower order of mind would take 


230 ADRIAN BRIGHT. 

delight in doing, seeing the absurdity more readily than the beauty 
of her aims, Hermione" regarded her with admiring amazement, as 
one of her own kind, who had been, so to speak, at school in another 
and more illuminated planet; and Saffo, sure of one proselyte, con- 
tinued to pour forth her fine voice in this semi-public way with an 
energy that meant conquest. Flitters said of Safio that her musi- 
cal realism was not like that of the stout woman, singing, with 
heartfelt expression, ‘ Et grasse, ge-rasse— gra-a-a-a-ass-se^c^md 
moil’ but a more world embracing pathos.” Yet, like Flitters, 
she did atheltic sports, with the music, with shakes, and runs, and 
high jumps, in right Olympic style. In her case, it was done out 
of the very wantonness of 3 ’oung, full strength that could not be 
repressed. (With Flitters it was otherwise.) Saffo had been used 
to practice many hours a day, and now, to her surprise, she found 
herself excelled, even in the point of compass and flexibility of 
"voice, by Herinione, who had not tutored her voice to a quarter 
this extent. But 8affo was not envious nor jealous; she hailed an 
ally in Hermione, wdio had yet everjdhing to learn in world-reform- 
ing science, and had hitherto been too bashful to attempt to elevate 
the masses. 

“People always enjoy what they know, ’’said Saffo, when her 
song from Orfeo was ended, “ or 1 would have sung a glorious in- 
vocation to Diana, that I arranged from Purcell to some words of 
m}'’ own;” and she struck a few concluding chords. 

“ Now play ‘ The Campbells is coming,’ my dear,” called a voice 
from near the lamp-post, 

Saffo retired, and laid down her guitar despondently. Perhaps 
she was somewhat unreasonably dejected. 

“Are we civilized, when wc can t even sing a trill out in the 
street without encountering disrespect? If 1 walk in the park and 
feel I should like to practice a vigorous passage in that open space, 
I must restrain myself. We have not even the freedom of a caged 
bird. Why can we have no street-singing at all, or none but the 
most abotninable howling? I don’t know how it is,” she con- 
tinued, in a more philosophic tone, “ but all circumstances seem 
to conspire to check unpremeditated pleasure.” (Unpaid art was 
perhaps nearer her meaning.) “ I used to see 8 maid-of-all-work 
toiling near the house where I wms staying with some friends, dur- 
ing one of my summer holidays. She seemed to live upon the dust 
of the mats and carpets she beat, and to refresh herself with hang- 
in<r out other people’s clothes which she had washed — her own 
were black! Y used to sing to this maid-of-all-slavejy. ‘ The 
muSiC w’ill soothe and cheer her, and elevate her soul,’ I thought. 
I explained this to my friend, who, I hoped, would help in a good 
work, and get the ladies of the terrace to join us. ‘ It would exas- 
perate the maid,’ she said, ‘ to hear the jmung ladies bedn their 
nonsensicsl noise, and leave her so much work to do.’ Can this be 
so, my Hermione? And, if so, why so?” 

Hermione wms as much at a loss for the answer as Saffo herself. 
So she was silent while Saffo sat at the piano and ran over a few 
roulades mechanically, for her clear voice was a delight to her. 

“ People laugh at me, I know they do,” said Saffo, after a little 
melodious pensiveness, “ tor trying to live up to a principle, to any 


ADRIAX RlilGHT. 231 

beautiful principles, 'uy Heriuione. They — whose only principle 
is to live up to their income.” 

The street boys save an occasional war-whoop beneath the win- 
dow in mimicry of Safl'o’s portamento, but she was above noticing 
any of these sounds, until an echo seemed to follow her song. The 
cook in a house opposite, where the master and mistress were evi- 
denly gone out to dinner, was improving her style by imitating 
Saffo’s scales, and howlinir them fervently, generously, with addi- 
tional keys. Thus was Saffo succeeding in elevating the taste of 
the neighborhood. A groom, in passing, said to another from the 
adjoining mews, 

” A lot of squalling Jacks you have here^ Bill.” 

This was too much. 

” Can one study art here?” cried Saffo, indignantly. “ Can one 
pour out one’s soul?” and she bent over the piano and — sobbed. 

Hermione consoled her (people had a good deal in the consoling 
line to do when with the easily dissolving Safil'o), and she dried her 
e3’’es as her father brought Bambino in to say “ good-night.” 

” Saffo crying. SaSo been whipped?” said the child, tenderly. 
“ Good Saffo, pitty Sallo, she must be loveded,” and he howled in 
sympathy. 

“ Scream in tune. Bambino,” said SaEEo, as she played a lively 
tune to him, and now the}'^ all laughed in chorus. 

Mr. Bright sat dowm on a brilliantlj’^ decorated chair, painted by 
Saffo in the Angelican Kauffman style, beautiful and artistic, trul\% 
but sticky to the touch. 

” What is that jolly thing you are playing, Saffo?” he asked. 

‘‘ The funeral march of a marionette.” 

“ Rather a gay thing for the funeral march of Marie Antoinette, 
isn’t it?” and they all laughed again. 

“Now jmu are loveded enough,” said Bimbo, and he turned 
awaj'- to give his father liis share of love. 

“ 1 must be going, Saff’o,” said Hermione. “ It is getting late.” 

“ If Adrian isn’t home soon, some of us will walk with you, 
darling.” 

Mr. Bright rose to open the door. The paint had stuck to the 
fluff of his coat, and he carried the best part of the pattern of the 
diair upon his shoulder-blades. He w^as deeply cbncerned. 

“ Oh, dear, I trust I have not injured— the chair.” 

Hermione expected to hear him say “ my coat.” She thought, 
“ Had it been my dress— and it might have been— what would 
mamma have said?” 

They w’alked through tbe back drawdng-rooin in the gloaming. 
The cliscarded carpet w^as rolled up in heaps pell-mell with rugs 
and skins. 

“ Lift your feet high,” said Mr. Bright, who carried sleepy Bam- 
bino. “There’s broken ground here,” he put in as a caution. 

The girls went up to put on thmr things. 

“ I need no but ton-hook, Saffo, for 1 find there are no buttons 
on my boots,” said Julia. “Is it not noble of us to follow your 
doctrine?” . , . „ 

“ This is indeed doing away with the superfluities of civilization, 
said Hermione, laughing. 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


232 

Another sieter, while helping Saffo on with lier jacket, pinioned 
her arras with the sleeves until she admitted that her system was 
not entirely free from flaws, 

A reformer is seldom appreciated in his own family, and Saffo 
Was not exempt from some of the discomforts of mart3^rdom, as 
Well as the intellectual rebuffs an enlightener alwa3'S meets with. 

“ There is no rule so perfect that it works well on all occasions,” 
said ]Ma 3 ’^ the moral izer. 

And indeed it seemed so in that family, for Mrs. Bright had long 
established a rule that the girls should mend and make their own 
clothes, which of course fell in with Siiffo’s views of independence 
and simplicity of life;, and this is how it worked even during the 
flve minutes of Hermione’s experience of its application. 

” 1 try to dress like a girl without a ])enny,” said Saffo, who 
wished to be valued for herself alone, and to gather round her only 
such admirers as had souls above luiberdasheiy, “ and I mean to 
do so as long as trimming is a synonym for decoration. Our trimmed 
clothes are only useful as a disguise, for between fuzzy hair and 
veil, rufiies and"^ flounced gown, there is a very small bit of a girl to 
be seen.” She drew herself up proudly to her full tall height. ” I, 
for one, do not feel inclined to eclipse myself in that way, ' So I do 
away with all superfluities in dress.” 

” i wish one had no shoes or stockings ” said Julia, who hated 
darning. ” It is cheaper to wear out one’s toes.” 

” This is cconony'^ with a vengeance,” said Ilermione, laughing. 

” 1 don’t mind making my dresses,” pursued Julia, ” but stock- 
ing-mending is the very Mephistopheles. I made this dress easily.” 

Could Ilermione have seen how it was made, she would have 
thought it too easil 3 ’^ done: for it was a frock she had outgrown, put 
on as an overskirt, with the old bodice turned in and hanging 
down inside, with the sleeves tied behind for a bustle, and the 
junction hidden by a sash. [She W£S an idle, untidy child of artistic 
turns, twists, and leanings. Her black fur jacket was torn, show- 
ing the lighter lining, ” a rent in a cloud,” as Flitters put it, and 
her umbrella had always a broken gargoyle. 

” We are not troubled with one thing,” said Saffo. who looked 
in vain for a fresh collar, ‘‘ that is, Vemlxirras du cJioix.” 

To Hermione.^vlio had almost all her life been brought up alone 
and in the primmest manner, the society of these girls, with their 
free-and-easy ways, was most amusing. It took lier back to her 
own short school-time, without the chilly oversight of the mis- 
tresses. The young Brights grew up like luxuriant wild plants, with 
no pruning or close training; but being so many of them, and 
having the warm, life-giving atmosphere of love all round about 
them, as well as a wise and broad general supervision from Mrs, 
Bright, who had not time to exercise herself at every instant in mi- 
nutiae, they grew up in a vigorous and healthy condition of mind and 
body, full of exuberant fertility, and free to develop their idiosyn- 
crasies. Augusta was alread 3 ^ in bed m the nursery wdien Hermi- 
one went to say good-night. She admired Bambino, now appar- 
ently asleep. 

” He looks beautifully good on the top,” said Augusta, ” but he 
is kicking away hard under the bed-clothes.” 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


233 


“ He will grow up as exquisitely beautiful as Tom,” said Safifo, 
who admired her elder brother, her model for the Palmyrene, im- 
mensely. 

“ He has a beautiful shin-bone,” said Augusta, who felt it. 

” He’s not asleep,” said May. ” He’s a little humbug, as Tom 
said of baby when he was roaring for nothing at three months old.” 
Here Bambino half opened one eye, and looked indescribably 
roguish. 

” You dear little Alma Tadema,” shrieked Saffo, precipitating 
herself upon him in a shower of kisses. “ You dear little concen- 
trated Liebig’s Extract of Alma Tadema.” Here she was herself 
caught round the neck and held tight. 

“ I’ve got her head,” said Bambino, pulling Saffo down. 

“I’ve got her arms,” said Augusta, tugging those members. 

“ I’ve got her gizzard,” and Julia, entering into the spirit of tha 
game, clasped her light. 

“ I have her drum-sticks,” cried one. 

“ And I’ll get her stuffing,” shouted another. 

May also struggled for a large helping. 

“I’ve got her diaphragm.” 

“May, you are not to leach Bambino naughty words,” said 
Baffo, extricating herself. 

“It’s part of our physiology at school,” returned May, indig- 
nantly defending the High-school system. 

“ Now I have her altogegger,” cried the conquering Bambino, 
holding her “ detfully tight” till she — squealed — the children 
called it. 

Cinderella called out, “ Stop squabbling.” 

“ Top cobbling,” lisped Bambino, and they smiled. 

“ ilow one sees the softening influence of children,” said Saffo, 
as they went down-stairs. “ \Ve should have grown so hard, so 
Gothic, but for Bambino. Gussie and the Pendragons are growing 
go old and worldly, that— that— well, we should all have become 
polished without being cultured if Bambino did not keep a model 
of youth and nature before us.” 

Uermione was not sure about the polish; the youth and natural- 
ness were certain. 

The twins, in their nightgown surplices, appeared to say good- 
night, looking like two young choristers. 

Are they not like a‘ bas-relief by Della Robbia?” said the en- 
thusiastic Satt'o. 

Adrian had returned, and was at the foot of the stairs waiting for 
Hermione, to tell her all about his experiences in this early stage of 
fortune-making. It seemed that nohow was Hermione to do her 
share of the talking. The young Brights were ail so busily de- 
veloping tbemselyes that no one else had a chance of expansion. 
Satt'o resigned her to Adrian unwillingly, while the rest of the girls 
seized Little Flitters, who had been dressed to go home so long that 
she said her clothes had become old-fashioned. Saffo still lingered 
near Hermione. 

“ Go along, Saffo, don’t you see you are a superfluity?” said 
Julia, giggling. 

“ That served Saffo right, I think,” said May to Flitters. 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


234 

They first walked home v^ith Flitters, who had, as she said, three 
hours practicing to thump out for Herr Grolleniclit before she went 
to bed; and then Adrian took home Hermione by not the shortest 
■wa 3 % but they went wandering about the streets up and down “ like 
the prongs of a comb,” as Julia styled their meanderings. The chil- 
dren volunteered to help Adrian io take care of Hermione, but he 
felt equal to the task. 


CHAPTER XXXllL 

“ So full of shapes is fancy 
That it alone is high fantastical.” 

Twelfth Night. 

The holidays having begun, so soon as there is a ring at the 
Bights front-door bell, you see a fringe of heads at the window, 
like a Donatello bas-relief, with different ' phases of expression, all 
on the lookout for fresh amusement. All is fi.-<h or fair game that 
comes to that family net. Now it is not fun, but pleasure, they 
are anticipating, for they are waiting for Hermione. She is going 
to Leeds to-morrow to reside for the tiresome three weeks preced- 
ing her marriage; for, of course, she is to be married from her 
mother’s house, and tlu're are preparations to make. 

Besides, all the world leaves London at the end of July, so why 
should Mrs. Nugent stay? Adrian, to be sure, must remain to get 
on with his large model, and Hermione can only have one more 
long day with Adrian until — forever. To-day they will finally de- 
cide upon tin; wedding-day. 

“ Chihlren, is our Pysche come? asks Safllo, looKing up from some 
drawing she was doing under her mother’s direction from the model. 
She always called Adrian and Hermione Eros and Psyche, 

“ We can't see who it is.” 

“ Who is it, Friol?” said Saffo to the model. 

He disarranged his draperies to turn and see, and then left to an- 
nounce the visitor. 

“ It is M. le Philosophe, de man who wears the crown of his head 
widout ’air and is always ver — varra,” 1 think he meant warm in 
argunnait, not in epidermis. ” He is the dinevoom.” 

"j\Ir. Fairfax w'as too much charmed w^ith the Brights, especially 
W'ith Mrs, Bright’s paintings and bewitclu'd w’ith Little Flitters to 
be able to keep long away from Welbeck Street. He was perpetu- 
ally running in at the time of the music-lessons hoping to see Daisy 
Flitters. He was always raoie or less in the way of all of them, as 
he w'as sure to be somewhere about in the house, or in Adrian’s 
studio. 

*■ Why can’t papa go and call on him sometimes?” murmured 
Saffo. “ That w’ould take him out of the w’ay of the rest of us.” 

“ If he lives on thirty shillings a week, perhaps he has not much 
in the way of a sitting-room at his lodgings,” said Mrs. Bright, 
softly. 

“ Adrian says he has a big house of his own in town. That is 
one of his trifling extras.” 

He did, indeed, keep a few' pensioners in clover in his London 
Jiouse, and -made them perfectly comlortable so long as their con- 


AUKIAN BlllGHT. 


235 


duct exactly pleased him. If they differed with him in opinion, he 
turned them adrift. This was the establishment he would have 
liked to put into Flitters’s hands to manaa'e, and, indeed, it needed 
clever management, for the house was full as plum-pudding of all 
sorts, ages, and conditions in life. One spare room only was 
reserved for himself as a pied-d-terre when he alighted in London; 
the rest was a menagerie of beauty, misfortune and talent. When 
I say beauty, I do not mean that girls lived there, though now and 
then any young woman evincing any remarkable talent, whom he 
met with in his travels, he placed there under the care of his ancient 
nurse, until he found a future and a fortune for her, or she failed 
to keen his admiration of her gifts. But every other form of beauty 
under‘the sun often found a halting-place in this caravansary- 
beauty of soul, beauty of long-flowing locks or manly feature, of 
childhood or of anmial life, and talents misunderstood, or hitherto 
unperceived, of every heterogeneous sort. He^ had not as yet pro- 
posed to give the charge of all this to Little Flitters, and it was not 
an otflce that Mrs. Brieht or any of her friends would have coun- 
seled her to undertake. He W'as a man too uncertain in his dis- 
position to make any form of reliance on him a safe speculation. 

He liked Mr. Bright, and they were both philanthropists; but 
there lav the difference between them. Mr. Bright spent money 
and wasted thought on others, alwa 3 ^s with a view to their good 
and pleasure; Mr. Fairfax spent thought and wasted money on 
others, always wdtli the view to gratifying himself. 

“ Will you goup-schtairs, sare?” Rosetta was saying to somebody. 

Mr Fairfax entered. His eres rolled round the room. Flitters 
was not there; still, he relished a talk with Saffo, so long as Flit- 
ters had not appeared. If the beef were not ready, he would help 
himself meanwhile to mustard, and wait, or amuse himself with the 
radishes and olives, Saffo resembling these piquant condiments. 

To strangers and others, Saffo presented a most amusing com- 
hinalion of the srracefnl with tlie grotesque. Her ways were full 
of a strange realism, vet lending toward a poetic, if mysterious, 
ideal. “ She lived," she said, “ to throw a glamour of poetry over 

the harsh outlines of daily life.” 

” She is like one of those catchy conundrums, said Flitters. 
“You expect something, and get somethimr else. She mystifles 
and then ‘sells’ you. She quite different from Mr. l‘airfax, 
who has very easy words for very difficult things. Now Saffo 
shows you a jug, a gallon pot, of stoneware, price fifteen pence. 
She calls it ‘ the principle of investment; sunk, one and thieepence, 
outcome " work of art, suck as is marked ‘ £70 (or so), ScuiIaRes 
Collection ’ in the museum, because she has painted it all over m 


live the simple, pniiosopuic ui-t-, -- “ . j- 

wlien perkaps oysler-skells kappen not to be m season or to live 
under a hedge in the Ouida style, when there is nothing but a 

\ml SaffoML’d well enough to talk with Jlr. Fairfax, when she 
was not desperately busy in pursuit of perfection m some one of 
its many branches. 


ADEIAX BRIGHT. 


»36 

“It is my greatest joy," she said, “to discover merit, to hail 
genius. 1 feel like an Alpine climber who stands on a virgin sum- 
mit and looks about him on new beauties, or like Columbus at San 
Salvador." 

But Saffo, like our philosopher, liked to have the becominsr, oi 
the comfortable as he did, ready to hand when she cared about it, 
or when she had no time to clothe herself in her own virtue, and 
ndorn herself with her principles." 

“ I drape myself in my own value," said Saffo. “ 1 like to dress 
as if 1 had no other fortune, so as never to attract admiration by 
the splendor of my outward appearance. 1 would not for the world 
look like an heiress at a party, like Miss Smith the other night in 
her satin and buirles, whose singing was so much admired by that 
hungr}’^ Mr, Sharke, on the lookout for a wife with money." 

Many of us like to dispense with the trouble of wealth, while we 
have its convenience, when W'e are so minded. It is so easy to do 
without fine disguises, so long as one is under five-aud-twenly, and 
looks well in anything, Mrs. Bright had vanished, not being able 
to paint profitably while Mr. Fairfax fidgeted her about each stroke. 

“The essential of one’s clothing is Safifo was talking to the 
philosopher— “ that it should be of good material (durable clothing, 
as the Bible says), in consideration of the principle of primary move- 
ment. Rough-and-ready is often the least waste of time." 

“ Tet clothing should be elegant," said he, “ and as fashionable 
as is consistent with higher aims; for instance, the skirts of walk- 
ing-dresses should always be cut short, for cleanliness’ sake, even 
if it is not the fashion." Saffo smiled as she thought of Little Flit- 
ters’s very short frocks and fashionable apparel. “ But what do 
you mean by primary movement?" 

This turned on Saffo’s tap. Primary movement was her present 
hobby. She rode him full tilt over all the children. If May cut 
her pencil, and left the scraps on the table, Saffo was dow n upon 
her with a manifestation that her primary movement of cutting her 
pencil over the fireplace would have prevented the secondary and 
tertiary movements of sw^eeping them up, and cleaning the table, 
duster, floor, and fingers that would be soiled in doing so. 

“ Besides, the lead would have helped to blacklead the grate, and 
the chips would have made phosphates for papa," said that little 
monkey, Augusta, who was always sharp enough to make fun of 
the family principles. 

Saffo was looking about keenly for illustrations of this new pet 
principle of hers, and, of course, she found them everywhere. Any 
one who keeps his or her eyes open will always be able to find fault; 
and this double, or secondary, movement is so habitual in every- 
body, that nothing is easier than to pounce upon principle-breakers 
from morning till night. 

“ Secondary movement," she said, “ implies at least double work 
for somebody." They were changing ilieir dresses for dinner. 
“ Gussie, see, you have taken off that garment, and throwm it 
down." 

“ No, I only let it drop," said Augusta, who thought Saffo was 
getting horrid. 

“It is on the floor, all the same. That causes the secondary 


ADUIAlf BEIGHT. 


237 

movement of picking it up; and, we live in London, the pinafore 
is soiled; requirin^ij the further tertiary movement of washinjj; it.” 
Saffo proceeded in the sclernn st 3 ’le of a sermon-writer on the war- 
path of his duty. ” 1 determinedly use the most trivial details for 
purposes of illustration; because it is in trifles that we let slip our 
time.” 

” If you don’t make haste, Saffo, you’ll get no dinner,” called 
Maj'", from her inner room. 

Through the open door Saffo darted upon Junia, looking for her 
shoes. The shoe-box was covered with carpet, like the room, and 
she was lifting it by means of a nailed fold. This had alieady 
stretched, and the nails would soon give way. Saffo taught her to 
lift it by a scientific movement, easy, but needing knack (and in- 
cidentally a knowledge of the laws of mathematical balance, gtavita- 
tion, etc.). She showed her how this caused ‘‘ less exertional ex- 
penditure of power,” and she indicated the future secondary and 
tertiary movements of Di(k or Cinderella in having to go to the 
tool box to find nails and nailing the carpet on again, 

“ So often,” said she — as if she had discovered it for herself and 
Junia — ” so often does our candessness make work for others; so 
often do we destroy or make things dirty for the purpose of clean- 
ing or mending them.” 

” I really think Saffo is right, when she says she is cut out for 
an old maid,” said Junia, as Saffo moved off, stalely, and satisfied 
W'ilh her adequate performance of this new rde of lecturer she had 
taken up, and looking, in her flushed loveliness of cheek and float- 
ing curls of hair, as little like an old maid as it is possible to con- 
ceive. 

” It is a mistake for her to call a pig ‘ a pig,’ if she wants to 
carry weight among us,” said May, adopting the manner of her 
favorite among the High-school mistresses. ” She should call it, 

‘ sus sci'ofa,* and then we should know that her argument had real 
value. 

Since that day Saffo had been always on the lookout for examples 
to feed her principles on, and the children made a regular gime of 
it, with forfeits for secondary and tertiary movements. 1 must say 
that Saffo herself was caught as often as anybody; but then, there 
were more eyes upon her. To-day she poured her theory of the 
importance of primary movement full on Mr. Fairfax without his 
being prepared for it. It felt like a shower-bath, 

” Common people speak indistinctly,” she said, ” and waste time . 
by this and so do school-boys. Our Dick, for iustance, mumbles 
something purporting to mean. Is Mr. Fairfax coming here to-day? 

‘ What, 1117 dear?’ asks mamma, Vho has not heard him distinctly. 
‘Mr, Fairfax,’ ‘What of him?’ asks mamma. ‘Is he?’ ‘ Is he 
what?’ ‘ Coming here to-day?’ ‘Yes.’ Here is time lost. ” 

Mr. Fairfax laughed. 

” Then we often ask a question concerning a matter of fact,” con- 
tinued Saffo, encouraged. “Some one will say, ‘1 think so.’ 1 
say, * You mustn’t think, you should know, and answer as if you 
were in a court of justice. It is your duty to your country’s laws 
to learn to answer accurately and at once. The Bible says, ‘ Let 


^38 


ADKIAiq- BKIGllT. 


your yea be yea, and your nay, naj^.’ It doesn’t say, ‘ Yes, let me 
see; 1 think it was so-and-so. I have an idea that 1 did it,’ ” 

No one couhi help laughing. ISatt'o was seriously in earnest, and 
yet so animated, and all her bits of dialogue were of such lively and 
varied intonation that it was as good as a clever piece of recitation 
to listen to her, as she placed her copy-book phrases with such lofty 
emphasis among her playful Iv familiar illustrations. ]\Ir. Fairfax, 
that rabid ola Tory, as the Bright children called him, was delighted 
with Saflo’s arguments so long as they did not nin counter to any 
sudden emotions of his own, and so long as Flitters was not near 
him with her keener fascinations. 

“ Half the power of a ruler is wasted, and the whole perverted, 
by hesitation and opposition,” said Saffo, thinking her new pet sub- 
ject out aloud. ‘‘ 1 cannot lose any time in contention and per- 
suasion. All my spare time must be used in disciplining m 3 ’^self for 
a ruler.” 

” ‘ The balanced unison of artistic sensibility with scientific fac- 
ulty,’ as one of my friends expresses it, gives you singular advan- 
tages for a work of this kind.” Saffo looked flattered. ” But you 
must take care to keep sufficient time for your own artistic develop- 
ment, and not give it all to the improvement of the world.” 

Saffo meditated. 

” The worst of much work on hand is, that so much time is 
wasted in secondary movement, in recovering the threads of the 
work,” she said. 

Decidedly he could not unseat her from her tall horse. He tried 
again. 

‘‘ Ah! Miss Saffo, you are a disciple of Comte.” 

‘‘In all but his main doctrine, perhaps,” she said, ‘‘1 admit 
other evidences than the senses. But I think our habits more im- 
portant than our philosophy. Those habits that fit us like a second 
nature, like our skin, in fact, if the}' are good, and which are tight 
garments and fetters if they are bad. ‘ Abs habits,’ as the French 
say. ‘ In his habit as he lived,’ as Hamlet says. Luxurious habits 
are only golden fetters which look like chains and bracelets.” 

The male philosopher agreed here with the female philosopher, 
but, luckily for the'world in general, Ilermione now entered with 
May, wiio was nursing the cat; and Bobby, who followed Her- 
miime, hung sheepishly in the background. Ke was afraid of Mr. 
Fairfax, who often put him through a catechisui. INIay did not 
mind him. She said he always expected her to talk like a leading 
article, and she could do that perfectly w^ell. Conversation became 
general, and, of course, trivial, until the cat scratched May. 

‘‘ I am losing my ichor,” said the latter. 

Saffo reproached her. 

‘‘ It serves you right. 1 could never conscientiously nurse a cat 
when so many children are uncherished. I never see any one nurs- 
ing a cat but I think she ought to be nursing a child.” 

‘‘ Well, let us go and nurse the baby,” cried May. 

” Oh, 1 must see the baby,” said Hermione. 

” It isn’t much of a thing,” said Bobby, who w’anted to keep her, 

** Oh, Bobby!” cried all the shocked girls. 


ADRIAJf BRIGHT. 


239 


“ Well, Adrian told me he was going to put up the fiiiial to-day 
as a surprise to Ilermione.” 

“ Oh, Bobby!” said they all in another tone, as he let that cat out 
of the bag, 

” It’s a great secret, so he’s spreading it abroad in his usual way,” 
said May. 

Well, 1 know he would like her to come out and see him put it 
up, and not go up and be bothered with babies.” 

He dragged her off without too much difficulty, as he promised to 
find out beforehand ” whether Adrian really wanted to have her or 
not.” 

The finial was the delightful ornament that Adrian had lately 
modeled, and cast in bronae, to affix to the gable-end of his studio, 
surmounting the inner room or third studioi" with the loft above it, 
which was at present devoted to a large cast representing Dido, and 
which he w^as preparing to fit up as a sitting-parlor fon Ilermione 
when they should be married. The finial, or poppy-head, was an 
elegant vase of artichoke form, with leafage and device of Inilj? 
artistic character; and it promised to be an ornament to .the whole 
yard. 

“I have no time just now to play with the dear baby,” said 
Saffo, ” nor to see the finial put up, as 1 have to call on the head 
mistress of the High School. You may come with me if you like. 
May.” 

” Oh. Day Flitters is coming soon for my bothering music- 
lesson.” 

The philosopher brightened. Saifo gave a shrug, as much as to 
say, ” ^lay is every bit as clumsy as Bobby.” She addressed her- 
self to Mr. Fairfax. 

” It is quite clear to me that the habit of primary movement is the 
most important item in children’s education in domestic economy. 
'See how it induces habits of reflection. Teachers would do well to 
attend to the inculcation of such habits, as life-long lessons, which 
are more useful than lessons meant to be themselves forgotten, and 
only a preparation, or discipline; not incorporated with one’s being, 
but only put on as clothes for the mind, or, perhaps, even mere 
mode.s. 1 am going to explain this to the mistress of ihe High 
School.” / 

” Oh, please don’t, Saffo,” cried May, who dreaded the chaff that 
she should get from the girls if Saffo made an irruption there with 
her principles, 

” Oh, nonsense. May, you are surely not weak enough to wish to 
hinder my doing good I o your schoolfellows, and incidentally to the 
world at large. What do .you go to school for? You will say, of 
course, for the higher culture.” 

jMay nodded her head a little dubiously, as if she had not been 
going to say exactly that. 

” My aim in life is to show that useful work is not incompatible 
with the higher culture; indeed, it is the higher culture. So long 
as we lose time in secondary movement we shall never have time for 
the higher culture. Early impressions are the longest and strongest, 
so it is my duty to give a liint of this to all instructors of youth. 
Take the very simplest example’’ — she addressed the philosopher 


ADRIAN RRIGHT. 


240 

as as May — “ if one puts away everything at once, instead of 
la 3 dng it down somewhere else first, it saves time, thought, and 
movement. Those who iiave made this habit give no time to tidy- 
ing up.” 

The philosopher winced. Re remembered the jam he had made 
of all his things in the cottage by the Washburn, before coming to 
London, and the trouble he usually gave to himself and others in 
tidying up. Re did not mention this, however, but talked about 
the day of monthly service that was due to the Lares. May de- 
termined to adopt the expression, to assimilate those elegant words. 
She felt more cheerful since she had remembered that it was 
holi(la 3 '’-time, and. of course, the High-school mistress would be out 
of town; and nobod}’- dwelt at the school save the charwoman in 
charge. 

“ !So long as we make mere necessaries the object of our lives,” 
said the philosopher, ” we shall never have time for the higher 
culture.” 

” Re is at it now,” thought May; “ we are in for a leading 
article. 1 wish Day Flitters would come.” 

” Yes,” he said, warming his eloquence. “ To give ourselves 
liberty, release from the thralldom of the trade.s, is %vhat we all 
should s(^k. To be in bondage to trade is a disjrrace to gentle 
blood. The entire system of all ^mur studies must be, sooner or 
later, founded on this principle ” ('* He’s got principles too, the hor- 
rid creature,” thought Ma}’), “that we must dress and keep the 
garden, that we must bring our own food therefrom with our own 
hands; and the little money we can earn over and above our in- 
dividual feeding we may expend upon our simple luxuries. Go tO' 
your mistress, child, and tell her these things.” 

“ How she would stare,” thought May; “ most likeh”^ she would 
put me down for a bad order mark.” 

“ We talk of education,” proceeded he, “ but to learn these things 
is education, far more than to read and write. Saffo,” the thought 
suddenly smote him, “ I will go with you to say these things to this 
lady.” 

Mav’s mischievous eyes twinkled. 

“•Well, then, Saffo, 1 will go on with my music-lesson with 
Daisy.” The philosopher hesitated. 

“Yes,” said Saffo, beaming, “ we will go to<retber and explain 
to as many of the mistresses as we can find there all the real charms 
of the simple life that leaves time for the truest ediicalion. As a 
Spaniard buys bread at the first shop he comes to when he is hun- 
gry, takes a fish and an onion out of his pocket, scrapes the fish, 
slices the onion, hospitably offers the stranger within his mountain 
fastness some of his meal, and is content. He can lift his soul to 
higher things—” 

“ tSuch as brigandage, I suppose,” said May, demurely. Saffo 
loftily ignored the interruption. 

Mr. Fairfax was torn in pieces between the desire to go and con- 
vince the High school mistress and the wish to stay and see Daisy 
Flitters. 

“ And all the girls will suppose that our papa keeps a fish and 


ADRIAIS' BRIGHT. 


241 

an onion in liis waistcoat pocket, and fishes them out for visitors. 
How will you like that, Sa3o?” asked May. 

“May— you grovel!” In rushed Little Flitters to bear off May 
to the school-room. She heard the stated case. “ Why, it’s holi- 
day-time; you won’t find a ghost there.” 

The philosophers turned to each other. This had not occurred 
to either of them before. Truly, a person of practical intelligence 
was Daisy Flitters. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

Thy mind shines thi'ough thee like a radiant sun, 

Although thy body be a beauteous cloud.” 

Beaumokt and Fletcher. 

“ Let us go and see them put up the finial,” said Saffo, as Mr. 
Fairfax did not seem likely to depart. “ Where is papa, Friol?” to 
the for; igu servant, who came in to see if he was wanted to stand 
any longer as a model; and, if not, to fetch some pieces of colored 
ware in which to arrange a refection of fruit and cakes that he was 
composing with a view to picturesque effect— an accomplishment in 
which he shone and delighted. 

“ The Herr Doctor, he is feeding the bairts, meez.” They knew 
he meant the fowls. 

The “ bairts ” dwelt, as we know, in a wired -off portion of the 
yard, and roosted up-staiis on the roof of the boot-house. 

Mr. Bright was in the yard, attended by sundry junior members 
of his family. He was feeding an invalid fowl, who had injured 
Iier beak, w'ith some specially prepared porridge made up after a 
prescription of his own, wdiich he made into pellets and crammed 
down the fowl’s throat. This was a fine opportunity for the 
theorist, as the bird was totally incapable of natural selection of her 
food among the varieties of nourishment offered to the rest of the 
communii3^ Jack held the beak open while the pellets were popped 
in, rolled up in green stuff, and a drink of water was drenched 
down, from the spout of the watering-pot, on the top of all, to send 
it dowui. 

The rest of the yard was gayly decked with plants and flowers as 
for a festival, and a striped awning was fitted up with rugs and 
draped with colored curtains, so that Herniione might sit ana watch 
the hoisting of the beautiful poppy-head that Adrian had modeled, 
and which could be examined in all its fine details of branch-work 
as it lay on the sunny pavement looking like a tree of bronze. 

“She looks like a nymph of the bower,” said Cinderella, as 
Adrian drew forvward some large pots of shrubs and sunflowers to 
surround and shade her throne. 

“ She is a ninf,” agreed Arthur Pendragon, and they all laughed; 
they talked and laughed at nothing, in very idleness of play, and 
rattled on with nothings in ecstasy of youthful frolic. Bambino 
bettered Arthur’s “ ninf.” 

“ She is an imp; Adrian says so,” and they all screamed. 

Friol helped Adrian to make a fete of this day of fond farewell, 
this prelude to the joy of union. He had his ideas. 

“ It is as gay as a mews,” said Mr. Bright, coming forward with 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


242 

his implements and empty Dorringer; “ a mews on washing-day, 
whicli always reminds me of a ship ' dressed ’ for a gala, with its 
skirts and quilts and colored sliirts and scarlet frocks and children’s 
pinafores all hung in lines, like bunting, across the mews throughout 
its entire length. ” 

“1 love a mews,*’ said Mrs. Bright, ‘'with its flowers at the 
painted window-sills, and its sleek horses, and the shining carriages 
all being washed and splashed b}' active arms.” 

” And the children of the ‘ mewses ’ always look so happy,” said 
Jack, laughing, in case nobody else would. They were all laugh- 
ing, but it was at Bambino dancing the sword-dance, with his tiny 
hands high above his head, in imitation of a Scotchman he had seen 
in the street. In lieu of swords he had laid a fork and spoon across 
each other on the flags, 

“It is his christening fork and spoon!” shrieked Augusta, 
“ What sacrilege!” 

“ It is because tiermioue is here that we laugh so much and are 
so fanciful,” said ’Bella, explanatorily, as Salfo came into the yard 
with Mr, Fairfax. 

“ About her sweet thoughts do hum as bees around their queen,” 
murmured Adrian, as he left the men who were at work with bare 
arms cording round the finial, so heavy-looking down in the yard, 
bound in its ropes and pulleys, that would branch out so fairy flue, 
so like a graceful plant, when up aloft. lie took his place near 
Hermione that he miglit see whether any alteration was needed for 
her convenience, to compass her with sweet observances. Also for 
the pleasure of being near the beloved one, and to receive her whis- 
pers. 

Adrian was not a man of much talk save in his lighter, freer mo- 
ments, when all was buoyant in him like the air. When his heart 
was fullest he spoke in action; in swift, linn blows, and finest 
strokes of shapeliness, and pressure of firm, loving hands in yield- 
ing clay, caressing the rounded forms with subtile tool; with trained 
eye at eager yet expectant gaze; the poetic brain and nervous arm 
all rapidly pulsating in the gladness ot creation. Such as he do not 
bubble over in vain talk. The sounds they utter are of a different 
sort from the twittering of tongues in ready-made phrase 

Only when alone with the loved one can he pour forth in ample 
tide, expressing the perfect fruition of the abundant soul, in sounds 
to whicii she replies as Echo — the sweetest nymph that dwells un- 
seen. With her — the Egeria of his own discovery, first known un- 
seen, by sweet utterance only, so long invisibly — can he revel in 
rich speech, lie had idealized her. found her, won her. She was 
to be his, all his. See her there as she sits enthroned in rnaiden 
modesty, and crowned by love. 

” She is the queen of love and beauty,” said the romance-loving 
Cinderella. Acs, indeed; to-day is he’’.*; and her. All feel festal in 
her honor. And Adrian, he is as a derni-god, a Prometheus who 
can bring down fire, a Pygmalion who can impart life. Are his 
alms limited to manual dexterity? Is his fancy paralyzed bj hav- 
ing Mammon for a theme? Does he heed the glib tongue of the 
partial connoisseur— the connoisseur in part, that is? or the simper- 


ADRIAN BRIGHT, 243 

ing tiamosels who yet unconsciously ape his forms as they sweep by 
them in the Academy sculpture-roomV 

“ How beautifully smooth the marble is just there,” says the sim- 
ple critic, iu mild-tuned approbation, poinlin^j with dainty, pearl- 
gray, finger-tip to the neck of his Clytie. This is what she sees in 
Clytie, glowing with tremulous passion of love for the lord of light. 

Hermione, that sw’^eeter form of tie name of Harmonj", was a 
Clytie to him; yet she but spiritualized his aims the more. The 
critics dragged his ideal to the market-place; she made it call aloud 
in sw'eeter music to him from above, and sing to him as the vocal 
Memnon hails the sunrise, when the daylight brings forth form and 
gives reality to things. And she is to be his! Oh, sweet refrain, 
that sang in his head so tunefully all day as he plied his busy mallet, 
only, still ever, to that tune — and she wdll soon be his— his bride; 
and even now he bathes in the sunshine of her sweet presence — 
” My queen, my queen.” 

It is the old, old tale, so ancient as to be the beginning of all 
things, as oft-repeated since as day-dawn, and ever as fresh and 
rosy as the morn. Eros and Psyche are always young; ever since 
the young man was called forth from the void b}’’ the voice of God, 
then made a living soul. 

‘‘ See, Psyche, there is your butterfly,” cried Safio. The light 
insect w’hirled about the bow'er of shade enclosing Hermione, the 
tabernacle where she sat draped in wdiite, and zoned in color like 
the sky, sheltered by draperies tastefully spread by a master hand. 
Mrs. Bright w^as busy in another corner of the yard sketching the 
scene. Adrian had no need to do so; it was painted on his heart, 
laid there m durable mosaic, each precious stone of which might be 
reckoned as a touch ot perfect bliss. But it was a lovely picture, 
well worth sketching by a hand that could spare itself a moment to 
that labor. The busy wmrkingmen hauling with nervous sinews in 
energy of attitude and purpose of developed form, and she, the 
bride-expectant onposite, calm as tlie moon, wailing for her hour^ 
The moon may be'al times rivaled by the light cirri, and veiled by 
the denser clouds, yet she shines on resplendent in her tranquil 
course, patientlj^ unenvious and serene. 

Summer fruits were brought out to them, and wines for their 
gladness. Friol, with all the taste for art and appreciation of the 
beautiful shown by foreigners, especially by those of Graeco-Latin 
race, grouped these things so as to add to the grace of the pictiue. 
Friol had an inHiuctive idea of composition, which w^as the more 
drawn out by his residence in Ill's artistic family. Then he took a 
rope and helped to lift the finial, the monument of their felicity. It 
seemed to m'ark an epoch, like the bell in Schiller's ode. ’Bella 
was already glorifying it in words that teemed with the first gleams 
of the vital spark. Hermione felt loo deeply for words. Even her 
loved music could not have expressed the emotions of this day. 
There might he some possible combinations of sound, sonwj unheard, 
unknown7as yet uncreated, melodies that would have sung her 
feelings. It might be so; a new song by some vocal spirits floating 
in the air, weaving remembrance of the Infrmony of the sphetes, 6r 
revelations of music more divine in man. 


ADKIAN BRIGHT. 


344 

And Adrian worked beneath here^’^e like a hero of the Iliad under 
the glance of Pallas. 

“ lo triuinphe,” sang Mr. Fairfax, as he waved his glass of wine. 
“ To Hermicue— to Adrian,”— and they all shouted in chorus. 

” PuMey hauly high ho,” sang the men, as soon as the signal was 
given by the man wdiose place Friol had taken at the rope, and 
vvho had now climbed to the gable where the finial was to be placed. 

“ One, two, three, and up she goes!” 

The whole family were spectators of the operation; eager faces 
came to all the windows. May left her lesson and ran down to the 
yard. Little Flitters waved a handkerchief from a second-floor 
window. 

The studio attendant, whom the children called Michael Angelo, 
a strong man, a model of muscular development, and used to mov- 
ing heavy weights of marble and masses of moist clay, made noth- 
ing of handling this graceful toy. He stood stripped to the waist, 
with the rope carefully sec^jred round his body, as he lifted the pon- 
derous bronze, and carefully steadied it with one liand while twist- 
ing one rope slowly round his left arm, as Friol pulled the second 
rope, until the poppy-head rose out of reach and was steadied by 
both ropes. It swung aloft and reached the elevation of the gable, 
where the mason stood ready to set it. Mrs. Bright was sketching 
for dear life. 

“ Oh, look at his biceps!” cried May, who was considered strong 
in physiology at the High School, and never lost an opportunity to 
show off. 

“ That isn’t his biceps,” said Adrian, laughing. ‘‘That’s his 
backbone. ’ ’ 

‘‘Ha des bras classiques,” said Friol. 

‘‘ What does he say?” asked Mr. Bright. “ A brass candlestic'k? 
Does he mean the finial?” 

Friol was heard lo explain something. 

‘‘ What is it?” said Mr. Bright. 

‘‘ He crois-qu ’oui-ed, 1 believe,” said Dick, who fought off trans- 
lation as much as he could. 

‘‘ Oh, May, a fat lot of anatomy you know,” said Jack, “ I don’t 
believe you know how many bones there are in the body.” 

‘‘ There are two hundred bones in the human body.” said May, 
loftily. 

‘‘ I thought there were only a hundred and ninety-six,” said Dick. 

” Ah, that notion was taken from a man who had a wooden leg,” 
said Jack. 

‘‘ Or who had lost some of his teeth,” said Augusta. 

‘‘ You counted the funny-bone, of course?” said Dick. 

” The funny-bone is not a bone. It is a process,” corrected May. 

They were silenced. 

‘‘ Now, in the young, the osseous frame-work is a cartilaginous 
formation,” lectured the High-school child. ‘‘ If Bambino tum- 
bled down, he could not break his legs; he would only bend his 
gelatine.” 

, “May knows exactly; the situation of the waist, 1 admit,” said 
Jack, mockingly. 


ADKIAJ?- BKIGHT. 245 

talking about waists, children,’' said Mr. Bright. “I dis- 
approve of stays.” 

” V\^er, May’s is not exactly a waist, you know; it is only a stop- 
page of the body,” said Jack. 

This was only too true of poor May in Safin’s blue dress. Mean- 
while, Bobby was busy helping the men with all his might. 

“ And he has his best trousers on!” shrieked ’Bella. ” It is always 
the way witii that boy. If we let him put on his best trousers while 
the others are beiuir mended, lie takes tliat opportunity of its being 
‘ lunging day,’ or some such thing, and tears, and cranks, and splits 
them all down the legs.” 

” He is too precossious,” said Friol, as he brought Bobby av;ay. 

” Oh, Bobby, look at your clothes!” said Cinderella, reproach- 
fully. 

” We must send you to the-- professed trousers-maker,” said Jack, 
threateningly. 

“To think of all the pains I take to keep this family neat, and 
send them to church respectably on Sundays!” said Cinderella, with 
a sigh. 

The finial was up, and being set firmly in its place. It was in 
beautiful proportion to the gable now; the artichoke flowers and 
curling acanthus leaves were full of delicate, playful drawing and 
Gotliic intricacy of line. 

“ It looked so big when it was down here,” said May; “ as if 
there could not be room for it on that point.” 

” It reminds me of one of the masters at our school,” said Bobby. 
“ He once stood seven fellows for punishment on a mantel-piece that 
could only hold six ” 

” You were there, of course, Bobby,” said May. 

“Yes; i was the middle one, and I w'as obliged to tip over three 
fellows on each side, to give myself room to fit in. How the fel- 
lows stuck on, with their backs" against the wall, and dawned the 
wall! Over they went. It was awful fan!” 

Bobby’s eyes sparkled. He would have liked to go through that 
action again. They all drank (in lemonade chiefl}^) joy to the finial, 
and lauglied and fell to work and play. The lovers remained to be 
sketched in situ by Mrs. Bright. There, under the outstretched 
branches of the finial, they fixed their wedding-day. The poopy- 
head was to memorialize this day to them, the rapturous festival, 
the ingathering of their love. To Bacchus leave the joy of vintage. 
Eros and Psyche need no external aids to happiness; their.s comes 
from within. And Adrian sat at Herniione’s feet, while Tante 
painted them, and looked upward to her face; and so we leave 
them, un worded, undisturbed. To Adrian, love-rapture could not 
be described, nor measured by flimsy erotics smoothly rhymed; nor 
life, by sentimental gushing. 

The rest rushed to their work and talk. Saffo was already deep 
in the great dust-pit question. She was putting Mr. Fairfax through, 
his facings. 

“We have each one of us a responsibility in this matter,” she 
preached. “ In view of the vast and increasing use of tinned pro- 
visions, some provision should be made for the provision-cases. Mr. 
Fairfax, you are a man with lime upon your hands, and a feeling 


, ADRIAN" BRIGHT. 


246 

for voiir weaker-minded fellow-creatures.” He looked pleased. 

“ You should gel into parliament.” lie seemed still more fluttered. 

“ You should put this fact plainly before the government. ‘ Every 
empty flsh-tin,’ you will say— ‘ every empty fish-tin is a well-de- 
fined and separate slink. Ye lords-commissioners, who reign o’er 
our sewers and sinks, think, oh! think of the ships full of tinned 
provisions, the shops full of tinned milk, and sardines, and lobsters, 
and oysters, the beef, and the ” squedgeables,” as our poor aptly 
term the vegetable products of the sunny South. The sardine- 
box, O Lord of the Home Department! that you sent away empty 
from your breakfast-table this morning; did it occur to you to think 
what would become of it? If you have a gas-fire, it is unpurified; 
if you have an open range, your cook will nut have it fliere mess- 
ing her place. Of course nobody washes it, and the dustman, the 
onl}^ person who wants it, only comes round once in three weeks.’ ’* 

” If you memorialise the Home Department in that way,” said 
Jack, ” the First Lord will say you are no lady.” 

” 1 feel that,” said Saffo. ” Hut I am only putting the case be- 
fore IMr. Fairfax. He can enter parliament— alas! I can’t.” She 
turned abruptly on Mr. Fairfax. “ Can you honestly tell me that 
you know what is in your dust-pit?” 

“ Oh, the usual miscellaneous collection, I suppose,” said he, un- 
prepared. Then, seeing Saffo look solemn. Jack asked her if she 
imagined ” a party ” was hidden away there. Mr. Fairfax turned 
away, overwhelmed by his responsibilities. 

‘‘ AVhat’s in our own, 1 wonder?” thought sly Jack, as he deter- 
mined to peep. ‘‘ It would be fun to find some sardine-boxes there.” 
Hut no, their dusi-pit was immaculate. Mr. Bright looked too 
sharply after the phosphates for it to be suspected. It was a very 
Ca 3 'ar’s wife of a dust-pit. Jack consulted Robert (le Diable), and 
they soon produced from somewhere a large basket full of kitchen 
refuse, wJiicli they dusted with ashes and decorated with a lob^er- 
tin, and brought Saffo over to inspect it. 

‘‘ Look at houie. Miss Saffo, before you preach to your long- 
suffering country,” cried they in triumph. 

Saffo could not believe her eyes. Mr. Bright passed and laid an 
embargo on the property, and tilted it all into tlie kitchen fire for 
chemical conversion into phosphates. There was no chance of boil- 
ing water for a cup of tea that afternoon, at any rate. Mr. Fairfax 
began to dread Saffo, and preferred the milder talk of Cinderella, 
her less highly-stimulant genius, lie listened to her talk of the 
w'cdiiing presents they were preparing or meditating for Adrian and 
Ilermione. For himself, he meant to give them a Turner drawdng, 
so he was quite settled in his mind. “ 

Saffo was giving them the first necessaries of housekeeping, a 
richly carved bread- platter and salt-box, carved from her own design 
in an Arabian pattern, being executed by a protege whose talent she 
was fostering. 

” The bond of bread and salt,” she said, ” is the first element of 
hospitality.” 

” You should give them two boxes, one for chloride of potassium, 
as well as one fc-r chloride of sodium,” said Mr. Bright. So Saffo 


ADIMA2N BRIGHT. 247 

prepared two boxes, that ilicv mii^lit have what condiments they 
liked. ‘ ^ 

“ Tlmt’s the poetical view of housekeeping,” said ’Rella. 

What! the bond of IJ. and S. poetical?” cried Jack. “ I don’t 
think that B. and S. sounds even respectable. I shall give them a 
pot of lioney; that is much more really poetical and bridal. 1 shall 
make my father get one at the Cob next time he goes.” 

The mason who put uj: the fmial asked for some beer. 

” No, my man,” said IMr. Bright, “ I won’t give you anything to 
drink. I’ll give you something to eat instead.” So he w^enl to the 
larder and cut him some white bread and a slice of brown bread, 
and put a thick layer of marmalade between them, so he told ’Rella, 
” and clapped them both together, with some cheese.” 

” All together, papa?” 

” JNo, not all together.” Then he continued telling the tale. 
” ‘ Tliat’s a nice, gentlemanly thing to do,’ said the man,” witli ex- 
quisite appreciation of the gentleman’s office. “ lie relished the 
meal, and was rather surprised when I told him I could get seven 
pounds of that marmalade for two and twopence.” 

” Diet you tell him it was made of turnips and glucose” asked 
Cinderella. 

‘‘ I told him I had heard there were turnips in it, but that turnips 
are very wholesome. I said, ‘ You just write it down, my man, the 
price and all; the wife at home will be very glad to know of it.’ ” 

” ‘ Tirnups,’ ” began the man, writing the recipe for marmalade. 

“ Papa gaved him a lot of bread and dam,” cried Bambino, run- 
ning in. 

” Do you really think it is right to encourage adulteration?” 
asked Mr, Fairfax. 

IVIr. Jos Bright became thoughtful. Questions do complicate 
themselves so sorely, lie was puzzled in many w ays without this 
additional suggestion. It was always a sad reflection to him, as it 
was to Mr. Fairfax, that we nowadays take barley in the form of 
beer; yet he liked to give an equivalent for beer, as he considered 
beer or beer-moneyas a survival of payment in kind, which he held 
to be patriarchal and picturesque. But then he had listened with 
some sympathy to Mr. Fairfax’s Utopian idea of becoming more in- 
dependent of trades by drinking no beer or brandy, but only water. 

” Life is real — life is complex,” he muttered, dolefully. 

Presently Linda Fraser came to say good-by to Ilermione, whom 
she should not see again before the wedding and the return of the 
^rnung couple to London .after the lioneymoon. She had declined to 
be a bridemaid, to Mrs. Nugent’s astonishment, not unmixed with 
displeasure, and only Cinderella was going to attend the wedding as 
representative of the Bright family. Saffo could not have her 
works. Linda was taken to see the flnial. It had been kept a secret, 
and was quite a surprise to her. 

” Where did you get it?” she asked. 

“Adrian makeuil it,” explained Bimbo. “ He werked it; and 
Bobby and me we is going to get a fire maded, ami some clay 
squeezeded up; and we shall make anovver one all boo’ful for Nini- 
.mine’s (Ilermione’s) new house, for her buff-day present.” 

In the yard they were still talking of how to do without trades- 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


248 

peoDle, and deplorins: the decay of good craftsmanship through ap- 
prenticeship being out of fashion. 

“ The descent of trades in families makes good workmen,” said 
Mr. Fairfax, and is better than premium or wages. Inheritance 
of family traditions is a pride and a possession.” 

“ The principle of division of labor is contrary to the idea of art,” 
said Saffo, who was always in the fray wlien ‘ideas were skirmish- 
ing. 

” Yet we should work in brotherhood and temperance,” said the 
Washburn philosopher. 

” And do without what we cannot do or get done for love and 
exchange of work. ” 

” These two motives, love and money, would make a fine chapter 
in my book on science and barbarism,” he reflected. So he said no 
more on the subject. 

” You should write a new Fors Clajivera, Saffo,” said learned 
May. 

” Oh, May!” cried Augusta; ” caught, caught. It is not ‘ jivera,’ 
but ‘ vigera." ” 

” Well, you don’t know what it means,” retorted May. 

“ Now, children, sing that chorus Saffo wrote on putting up the 
finial, ’ said tlie believing Cinderella. She thought it fine, ” like a 
German holy song,” as she expressed it. The children began each 
one in a different key, ” a hunch of keys,” Little Flitters called it, 
as she ran down to know what the fiendish noise was. 

“ Don’t sing it like that,” said Bobby to Arthur Pendragon, who 
meant to be a clergyman some day, and therefore intoned it. 

” Don’t hit me on the nose then, or I can’t help singing it like 
that,” said the antiphlogistic divinity student. 

” Stop that squealing,” called out Jack, with the authority of a 
big boy. 

‘‘Now you deserve another,” said Bobby, sternly, to Arthur; 
” you deserve it for having squelt.” 

‘‘ Now, boys, a little steadiness,” called Mr. Bright. Mrs. Bright 
proposed a game. Mr. Fairfax suggested that they should play the 
game that he called ‘‘ clumi)8.” You think of something, the more 
recondite the better. The rest of the community are to ferret out 
your thought by asking you any question under the sun. You are 
to answer yes or no to it, until the}-^ divine your thought. It takes 
a keen cross-questioner to discover the abstruse object. jMrs. Bright 
thought of ” Latimer’s torch wdierewith he kindled sucli a fire in 
England as never would be put out;” and Saffo guessed it. Saffo 
thought of the rights of women, which Mr. Fairfax guessed; and he 
thought of ” the bed of the man-who-had-lhe-stars-for a-blanket,” 
and they gave it up. Mr. Bright thought of sulphuretted hydrogen, 
and May scented it out. The toys thought school was almost an 
easier game, and decamped their several ways. The charm of this 
game is, that its admirers can terrify the humbler world with it at 
any moment, and they do so. This is the way of that game. At 
any instant, some one wdll suddenly call out, “ I've a clump,” and 
a wild career of mental excitement begins. 

Mr. Fairfax started from a reverie some hours later, and cried, 

” I’ve thought of a capital clump.” It was this, ‘‘ The luggage of 


ADRIAi?- BRIGHT. 


249 


Bias the Sage when he said. ‘Omnia mea mecum porto,’ ” and 
Herrniorie guessed it. May felt as the world must have felt when 
America dawned upon it, at this new idea of Hermione’s classical 
learning. The fact was, she remembered hearing Professor Skin- 
flint speak of that ancient property long ago when she Avas at 
Whitby. I do not think she had forgotten a single thing that was 
said or done there. Those days were as deeply engraved on her 
heart as long ago inscriptions on the limestone of the Tees. Oh, 
it w'as a charming game! 

The girls had taken their cousin Linda up to see Saffo’s famous 
wall-paintings and studies, the great Palmyrene panel in particular, 
-over which Linda did not gush. 

“ AVhat did Linda think of it?” asked Saflo, unable to repress a 
certain eagerness for which she despised herself. Was she not 
using self-discipline to hold herself an humble student? looking be- 
yond mere praise for some neatly finished performance, to the great 
vista of Art itself; in which her work shouhl be put as a leaf help- 
ing to make up the sum of that glorious forest? In face of a vision 
of such breadth, where a Titian was but as a flower or fruit, what 
did it matter whether a tiny frame of hers were seen on the Academy 
walls or not? It could but inclose a bud of thought. 

‘‘We must get up to Academy pitch first of all, of course,” said 
Saffo, simply, ” and then get beyond it.” 

Adrian laughed, Linda sneered, Cinderella stood respectful. 

” One should get above the Academy, you know, and look to 
Alt’s potentialities.” But youth Is weak. 

*‘ What did Ijinda think of it?” she asked, after the girl’s visit to 
the great fresco. ” 1 hope she had the good taste to like that, the 
best thing I have done yet.” 

” She hardly took a glance at it,” said May, bluiftly. ” She only 
looked at that little study of foliage on paper (hat you did last week. 
She said it showed signs of progress, and modesty, the great requis- 
ite for berzinners. ” Saffo chafed. 

‘‘ I think she said that, to show that she does not care for your 
other things a bit,” said Junia. 

“ Where is Linda?” 

” In Adrian’s studio, I fancy.” 

“Oh, don’t mind what she says,” said ’Bella, soothingly. “I 
think it is quite right to be ambitious and not to grovel; and Linda 
is ambitions too,” Saffo flaslied forth. 

“ Ko, Linda is not really ambitious, except in so far as every one 
■else is, that she likes to be first. She does not care for the advance- 
ment of art by her labors, though she be crushed. She is not am- 
bitious. ‘ Ambition should be made of sterner stuff. ’ She has an 
over-weening self-confidence, the result of imperfect culture.” 

Tliis was true. By distinctly asserting herself, Linda made most 
people believe in her. Saffo saw through fiery eyes more deal ly. 

“ Where are Salfo and ’Bella, Bobby?” asked. Lillie Flitters, 
who liad given the last music-lesson for that day. 

“ They are up-stairs. They are talking about Linda. She’s been 
nasty.” 

“ About Linda? Ilow do you know? What were they saying?” 

“ Addition should be made of Turner’s stuff.” 


250 ADRIAN BlilGHT. \ 

“ Turner’s stuff!” Flitters shrieked. “ That should go to Mr, 
Fairfax.” ‘ ^ 

AVell, tailor’s stuff. Something like that, I know it was.” 

” Come, klein biibelsche, kome, my kauudelsche.” called out 
Rosetta, tryiu.i: to attract the little flock to their five-o’clock tea. 

” Where" are the Dioscuri?” said May, hunting up the juniors- 
over whom she presided at tea. 

“ You look quite matronly,” said Flitters, accepting a cup. 

“I had need to,” said May, with a full-grown sigh. “ I must 
accept the first offer that comes, there are six of us, you kuow\ The 
six Miss Brights. It is a serious matter, only no one sees it in the 
light 1 do. Satto and ’Rella don’t know their own interests— nor 
ours. These thoughts quite -^ear me out, 1 assure you.” IShe 
heaved another sigh; she also had her w^arfare wdth the world. 

The sisters were very different in their view^s. Adrian once, when 
taken to see Saffo’s frescos, suggested that she might some day be 
married, and have to leave it all, 

“ Oh, Saffo looks higher than that,” said ’Rella, naively. 

Adrian raised his eyebrow’s, and smiled. Cinderella hastened to 
put a piece upon it. 

“We might be married incidentally, of course, but we should 
never, waste our time expecting that.” 

The noiion of being incidentally married amused Adrian Birght. 
Be laughed over this w’ith Ilermione. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

“ Vous parliez de beautS et d'esprit. Le premier des biens. 

O’est fe (^ar. L’esprit et la beaut6 u’en sent que les voiles.” 

Alfred de Musset. 

They were going to wind up their precious day b}’^ going to a 
concert, the last of the season — Berlioz’s ” Faust ” conducted by 
Halle. 

Flitters had a ticket and meant to go. Adrian proposed that he 
and Ilermione should go with her, and Mr. Fairfax w’as w^elcomed 
W’hen he asked to be allowed to join the party. It was a lovely 
July evening, so they proposed w’alking down to the hall, as Flit- 
ters’s ticket was only for the balcony, where full dress w’as not com- 
pulsory. 

Linda proposed to accompany them. The two couples were not 
transported with delight. 

” How can she be so dense?” said Saffo. 

” Never mind,” said the good-natured Flitters, ” I will take her 
off their hands.” And she did it diplomatically. It w’as no easy 
task, for she had tw’o to fight against ; Mr. Fairfax, wdio did not 
want her, and Linda herself. But Flitters was equal to the oc- 
casion. 

” The sky is as beautiful as a brocaded dress,” said Flitters, as 
they all stood on the door step w’aiting for Linda, and looking up 
at the narrow slice of nature that one sees roofing-in Welbeck Street. 

Mr. Fairfax, the sun-w’orshiper, was not pained by the com- 
parison. So much depends upon our prejudice for or against the 
speaker. 


ADRIAN. BRIGHT. 


251 

■“How low!” cried May: “the clouds are just like Germany, 
•with Schleswig-Holstein sticking up out of it.” 

“ None but a High-school girl would say such a thing of the 
sky,” said Saffo. 

“ These clouds will all make a horizontal line, and descend in 
the form of rain,” prophesied Ma 3 ^ 

Herinione would have seen fairies in the clouds, and Tante colors; 
Adrian would have storied it with the birth of Venus from the 
seas; Saffo would have seen in those white fleecy clouds the heads 
of French philosophers adorning the terraces of the Sorbonne; and 
Mr. Bright would have discerned electric flames and good fires for 
cooking potassse. 

“ Perhaps Linda is not really going, after all,” said ’Bella, with 
an expression of complacency at the possibility; a satisfaction too 
soon to be blighted. 

“ Yes, she is,” said Bobby “ I can see her hauling up her joops.” 

Only a schoolboy would thus have described Miss Fraser’s ele- 
gant manner of gathering up her drapery tor walking. 

It was too true. Linda evidently persisted in going, and the 
good-natured Flitters compromised her reputation for sweet temper 
by engaa^ing her m a running fire of quarrels. Fairfax was delighted 
with Flitters’s scintillations of fun, as they talked of styles of 
beauty. 

“ I dare say we arc all alike in our tastes,” said Flitters; “ next 
to our own style, we all admire Flermione’s.” 

But Linda could not be brought to ac(piiesce, and gave her ver- 
dict against the Greek ideal. Those small, graceful heads, she 
thought, were so indicative of weakness of character; and of course 
in moderns this type would have all the weakness, not counteracted 
by the perfect artistic training of the ancients. Want of culture, 
added to weakness of character, must ever produce a result for 
•which she, at any rate, felt no admiration. 

It took all Flitters’s cleverness to hold Linda by her side and not 
let her fall back to disturb the sweet concords of the other pair. 

“ It is as bad as tugging on a little dog by a string,” thought 
Flitters. “1 can now feel for those long-suffering ladies who are 
•victims to their pet dogs,” 

“ What an exquisite evening it is,” said she aloud, as they turned 
Into a square and saw the after glow of evening illuminating the 
topmost branches of the trees. They let the lovers pass them as 
they paused here admiring. “If Saffo were here she would give 
us a serenade,” said Flitters. 

“ I believe Saffo would not mind making herself supremely ridic- 
ulous,” said Linda; “ but she is my cousin, and a lady, even in her 
wildest moments.” 

“ She says it is our utter lack of civilization that will not allow 
of our singing out of doors, to express ourselves and to elevate the 
public.” 

“ There is much sound reasoning in her view of the power and 
aim of music,” said Mr. Fairfax, meditatively. 

“lam sory to see so many people encourage Saffo in her absurd- 
ities. ” said Linda, severely. 

“ I think there is an immense deal in what she says. I always 


ADUTAK" BRIGHT. 


252 

come away instnicteii by her.” Flitters looked mischievous. Here 
was a nict quairel afloat, and Adrian and Hermione had turned a 
corner and J^ere out ot sight. Flitters the ever-vigilant kept her 
companions beyond long range; the unwary Linda liad fallen into 
every trap she had laid. She continued lightly: ” Hut I suppose 
we should soon have the streets rampant, like the opera, where they 
want to express unshriekable things, beyond tlieir register. We 
should hear voices peacocky, catty, owly, mad-doggy.” IMr. Fair- 
fax laughed; Linda gave her a glance of contempt. ” It would be 
the alive school, as the custode calls a certain set of students at the 
South Kensington Museum.” 

Flitters’s labors for the day were over; she had been giving 
music-lessons during many hours; and, lightly as she look it, her ^ 
walk to the concert had not been an easy journey. Now she meant 
to rest and eniov herself. They had turned into Regent Street, and 
were near St. James's Hall. They talked of Berlioz’s ‘‘Faust.’' 
None of them but Flitters had heard it. 

” I go empty to a new idea,” said Mr. Fairfax. “ 1 am opening 
myself to receive and hold a new impression entirely without prej- 
udice, or expectation even— with respect, truly, because of Halle’s 
name.” 

” And Berlioz’s,” said Flitters. 

“ No, 1 never heard of him until last week.” 

They entered with the crow’^d and found places tolerably near to- 
gether. 

‘‘ Would you kindly take oft your hat. Miss Fraser,” whispered 
Flitters, ” there is a little girl behind you who cannot see over your 
head.” 

Linda’s hat was very broad and she was tall. 

“ I could not think of taking off my hat,” said Linda. 

“Many ladies do,” said Flitters, who thought her disobliging. 
But she made i»er change places with her, and thus took her quite 
out of reach of Adrian and Hermione, wdio were preparing them- 
selves for intense enjoyment together. Hermione loved music with 
a deep fervor of wdiicli she was herself unconscious; A (Irian cared 
for it as an etherealized vehicle of emotion. He analyzed with even 
more than his usual keenness every shade of expression as the music 
drew it out among the children of art; and with each new impres- 
sion his eye rested on Hermione's speaking countenance, on her who 
seemed to him to feel more exquisitely than all the rest; even more 
so than Halle, music-steeped and tempered, and now full of (he de- 
lightful excitement of conducting a perfect band. Tiic hall was 
brimming over with anticipation of pleasure, a pleasure enhanced 
by patience, for the very chorus had straggled in an hour too soon; 
and they had all learned the story from tin* book of the words. The 
magic ^ile of hovv Faust has united youth to wdsdom— the j'outh is 
fruit of his unlawful wisdom, not wisdom the fruit of a laborious 
youth; how, out of infidelity, its gloomy depths, he can look up- 
woird and see the beauty ot piety and innocent, unqimstioning faitli. 

Mr. Fairfax sat back in meditation, forgetting the music, while 
his thoughts flew on, wing borne by the sounds. What to him were 
the sweet harp harmonies pointing the instrumentation? or the diffi- 
cult syncopated passages that were so relished by the technical Flit- 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


253 

ters, and which in their perfect renclerini^ proclaimed a victory of 
Balle and his disciplined band over a realm of art? What to him 
was that soft melod.y, with its softer, more aerial symphony, repeat- 
ed as by an echo softer still, that sent the audience into delicious 
ecstasies? What was it all to him? as he sat there in deed, but liv- 
ing in the spirit, wrapped in imaginings. This fanciful philoso- 
pher and philanthropist was always carried into other worlds by 
music; and Flitters beheld him, wondering, for it liad no such effect 
upori her. The music alone was sufficient for the philosopher, the 
music and his soul, which was as an instrument being played upon 
without an effort of his volition. He simply let himself go— up to 
the third heaven. 

But, if the sweet sounds of this music, so full of color and text- 
ure, had this power upon him, what were they to our lovei’s? who 
heard them through ears made doubly sensitive by the intensely re- 
ceptive nature of those unto whom love has entered and opened 
every window of their being. They need not be in the spirit, for 
they are alt spirit, all one transtigured glory. What the music 
spoke to tiiem they could interpret in the seraph language, Iho 
language that has been borne in divinest song throughout the uni- 
versal creation from eternity — the words and tones of love. 

With what sweet, wild varieties of phrase do the trembling violins 
greet Margaret. “ Ah, will my dream return, return and bless 
me?” sinars Margaret’s sympathetic voice, in the quaint air full of 
feeling of an earlier day, listening for by-gone echoes. 

Hermione’s dream lias returned and blessed her. As the harp 
sweetens tlie song, the memory of Rievaulx and of lier AVhitby 
hours of sunshine brings tears to her ej^es; happy tears. The lover 
sees her blue eyes moist with feeling, her parted lips trembling with 
thankfulness, and together tney roam through bowers divine. 

“ 1 love thee,” whispers Faust, in sweetest song, and she hears 
only Adrian. And so the beautiful strain rings on. The mngic of 
rhythm is deeply felt by all. The time is exquisitely kept, sharp, 
brilliant, melting at will; even the spirits of caprice are under 
masteiy. The whole is so imbued with the spirit of the Faust 
legend, that be the movements .joyous and delightful, or steeped in 
pathos, is there independent motion or dance measure, yet they 
think, and sing, and play as one man; and that a man for the lime 
enjoying the use of his finest powers. 

‘‘No wonder it has run through London,” said Flitters, when 
they all woke up, when they drew independent breath once more, 
and were no longer under the immediate sway of Berlioz’s genius, 
or of Halle’s directing fire. ” How do you like it?” she said to 
Fairfax. “ What has" it done for you? Has it turned you into a 
disciple?” 

” I am something other than I was before — a fuller man, at any 
rate,” he said, dreamily. But he bad to rouse himself and find Miss 
Fraser’s wraps, and she was cross because Adrian was already gone; 
they had missed each other in the crowd, and he bad to reply to 
Little Flitters, wlio improved the occasion by keeping up a running 
fire of musical review. She was excited, too. One need not be in 
love to thoroughly enjoy line music; wdiich makes one tingle joy- 
ously through every nerve like a cup of generous wine. 


254 


ADRIANT BRIGnT. 


“ How one feels the difference,” she said, “ between the ordinary 
theatrical music, which is like a jugful of tepid milk-and-water, 
and what w e heard to-night, which is so maul^ and vigorous, yet so 
full of feeling and pociry!” 

“ Yes,” said lie. “ This music gives value to the time spent, or 
absorbed, in it; the other has less value than the time empty. One 
holds no mirror up to us, but a m.ask; but throughout this of to- 
night w'e find the answering chords in ourselves.” 

Flitters was afraid to let him go deeper than this, though she liked 
to hear him talk. Her little rippling shallowness seemed so very 
transparent when he began, and the little rattling splash of her dash- 
ing against the pebbles. So she used her eves, and looking about 
her to some purpose, found Adrian and Hermione waiting in a door- 
way for the others to come out. 

Linda Fraser was still angry. She had had a disappointing even- 
ing. She was not very sensitive to enjoyment in music at any time, 
tlmugh she had resolute ly gone through a vigorous course of scale 
practice in her day, to wdden her, as she said— and she needed it. 
Flit to-night she could not concentrate her attention on the music, 
she could only glare at Hermione with unrelenting envy. She was 
untouched by the grace and loveliness that sympathetic souls alw\ays 
see in the picture of young lovers. Had not love been blind, as love 
always is to everything but beauty, Hermione must have seen that 
her cousin hated her. Rut Love is light, and not the eye wdiich sees 
it; and Hate is the shadow that creeps up, lurking behind one’s own 
figure. 

And now, what were they to do? No one had thought of that. 
Linda had e.xpected that they would all go back to Welbeck Street 
together, or that in some way Adrian would be her own escort 
home; perhaps, after Hermione had been disposed of in her moth- 
er’s carriage. Rut Flitters settled tlieir affairs for them in her busi- 
ness-like way. She said of course it would be folly for Adrian to 
lake Hermione to Welbeck Street, when her mother lodged in 
Lowndes Crescent, south of Hyde Park; equally absurd would it be 
for tliemselves, wdio lived in St. John’s Wood, to go round by way 
of Lowndes Crescent. No, they must take the train at Portland 
Road'. Mr. Fairfax might go with them so far as the road lay his 
way (as he declared it did), and they would take a cab from their 
own Nation. The only amendment made to Flitters’s plan was that 
Mr. Fairfax called a cab, and took Miss Fraser and Miss Flitters to 
their own door; and Flitters, that spiteful little puss, who liad seen, 
and w'as glad of, JMiss Fraser’s discomtiture, was w'ell-nigh minded 
to ask the philosopher in, and offer him some of her famous sherry; 
but she recollected the proprieties in time, and determined to make 
up the loss to him some otlier way. 

Her keen black eyes had seen the glare of baleful hate Linda had 
fixed upon Hermione when Flitters proposed the plan that should 
give the lovers one last walk together before tlieir parting, and the 
little pianist had absolutely shuddered under the glance, though she 
could not understand it. 

Adrian, all unconscious of the undercurrent of drama that flowed 
beneath his great epic of happiness, walked home in the moonlight 
with his virgin bride, and left her with her mother. It was hard to 


ADRIAK BRIGHT. 


255 


trust lier even there. They were both ileepl}^ moved in this parting, 
which was biit the necessary preparation for their meeting— each in 
a mingled agitation of trembling, joy, and pain, and dread of what 
might chance, meanwhile, to .one so precious. Each had such a 
treasure to commit to the hand of Fate. They tore themselves at 
last asunder, after an entraucement of hand-claspings, and one linger- 
ing kiss. The door closed reluctantly. lie remained alone; ^left 
behind in the night, llis soul seemed torn from his body; yet he 
was not unhappy. He had been so steeped in bliss, that he still felt 
its influence, as a Hindoo feels not the cold of his first English win- 
ter, because he has been so steeped in sunshine. 

He was like a spirit wandering vaguely about some dim Elysium, 
a colder Paradise; 

“ Within his heart was the lamp of Love.” 

He walked many times up and down the streets and terraces abut- 
ting on Lowndes Crescent, haunting the house that slndtered his be- 
loved one, until he became an object of doubt and curiosity to the- 
guardians of tlie slumbers in that neighborhood. Then he walked 
swiftly up St. George’s Place, and stood awhile aimlessly in the 
shadow of the Triumphal Arch, watching the nightly crowd of Lon- 
don whirling on before the still range of white columns opposite, 
made more silvery in the clear moonlight. lie passed under the 
pillared entrance of the park. 

“ From the cool cisterns of the midnight air, his spirit drank repose.” 

He moved further on, in search of tranquillity, among the walks 
beneath the silver-touched trees of the park, careless that he was 
hailed once or twice by people, sajiug, “ The park -gates will be 
shut in a very little while. ” On a seat was crouched, hugging her 
child, a poor, miserable woman, wiio spoke to him. He was in- 
finitely touched by the sight of this wretchedness. He gave the 
poor creature money and a few kind words, and told her to go and 
get a lodging. He gave them rest and comfort, warm trom the 
heart. lie most pour out of his gladness. He felt toward all men 
the heart of a brother. 

It was just midnight. The bells of the great city were breathing 
out in a great vocal wave. He could distinguish Great Paul as 
striking the full key-note; the diapason was filled in its every semi- 
tone by lesser strokes, yet all was harmonized by the distance and 
by unity of meaning. 

The moon drew to Itself the full ocean-tide of the sculptor’s heart, 
and lifted it high above all earthly cares. He was glad to be here 
alone, shut in with the prospect of the wondrous doubled life now 
opening before liim. Here he had sympjithy and space. Tlie 
cushioned trees of the park stretePed away in their uplifted multi- 
tude, as if they were earth reaching up to the moon’s kiss. The tali 
needles of the tropic plants pointed to tbe sky, each to a luminous 
p;,int above. The young palms w’aved in the July night as gayly 
as if they were not exiles. The full moon was shining in silver 
radiance over the vast sleeping city, and he was alone with Ids love. 
He went on, and stood on the high ground opposite Lowndes Cres- 
cent, and watched the soft filing clouds that gathered round the 


256 ADRIAN BRIGHT. 

moon as she stood sentinel over the house that contained the lady of 
his heart. 

From his point of vantage he watched that house all night, as a 
knight of old time watched his armor. Again those distant bells 
which seem to peal to him a blessing from heaven. Oh, what a 
trust is being committed to him! To make tiie happiness of this 
young life. Oh, that he may fulfill it faithfully! He is taking her 
fr3m her hours of innocence and childish pleasure. It will need 
all his tenderest, most anxious care to guard the morning of so 
sweet a life. His heart was bursting with its bliss. His daily work 
has hitln rto been to take the clay from the ground and mold it into 
a presence fit for the skies, ^ow an angelic being has descended to 
him, the warm soul has come to fill his clay images, to make of 
them his breathing ideal. His sculptures were alw'uys fine and 
pow'crful in f jrm and purpose, but the.y never breathed till he knew 
Hermione, Tlie doubled life begun for him has alrendy doubled 
his powers. Hitherto he has been in his Wander jahr; hencefor- 
ward he is the master, free to give f(-rm to whatever Jiis spirit traces. 
A new existence is opening before him, a new and double life, and 
life has always been beautiful for him, with bis fine gifts. His toil 
has hitheito been his greatest pleasure, his liberty to roam every- 
w’here in search of beauty one of his most valued possessions. 
These things are nothing to him now; what he lias as yet done is 
nothing in comparison with what he now feels strength to do. He 
felt his own immortality, as those first-hour bells sang to him of 
another day, in the old love numbers, as the newly created day- 
stars sang to Eve, when the sons of God shouted for joy. The tu- 
mult of joy and triun.ph was calmed by the munnuriug peal, and 
by the breeze of night, soft as the memory of his loved one, his 
Psyche sweet. His wild, free time of j'^outh is fled, his hours of 
daring past, his days of foreign life are over. He seeks his own 
home, a bridal nest of his and hers.’ Not power, not freedom. 
Love “ alone can give bliss worthy a soul that claims its kindred 
with eternity.” 

Ah! how beautiful she seemed this evening. How exquisite she 
has been all day in her bower, encouraging him by her sweet pies- 
ence to add beauty to all their lives. How fair her face, how music- 
al her voice! Not even Margaret, not Eve before the fall, was 
more innocent, more fair than she. And she is to be his! He 
throbbed vvith feelings hitherto unknown, as he stood under the 
stars alone with his deep joy, as if he had been the first created 
man. And two o’clock pealed out in solemn chant of music. It 
was an ineffable moment in his existence. He had never known 
emotion thus palpitating even amid all his happiness with his be- 
trothed. It was as if a constellation of glory were encircling him, 
and overwdielming him in its flood of light. 

The cO'Or of the moonlight was in harmony with the feeling of 
the sculptor, it was homely to him, and customary, this marble 
whiteimss, and it soothed him. Beneath the moon one cannot 
wmrk, only in thought, and sweet, fanciful meditation. The last 
carriages had rolled away into stillness, ” and the earth was all rest 
and the air was all love.” 

He sat on one of the seats and waited, looking toward the south- 


% 


ADRIAN BRIGHT, 


267 


east, toward her dwelling; and the symphony of hells rang out again, 
and louder, longer now, "in triple chime. And “ the light, though 
less bright, was far more deep ” until a mild mist veiled the sky, 
making all nature appear silvery, as if seen tlirough white gauze, 
and when the delicate veil lifted off, the moon no longer reigned; 
but there, over tl;e house of his beloved, shone a fair, a brilliant 
ray. It was the morning star. Surely the spirit of her he loved, 
the exquisite Ps5mlie. Oh! how beautiful, how full of promise. 
Ilis every emotion w'as awake, all tending, straining toward her. 

The dawn was already rising in the glimpses of the east. He 
watched the scul|; (ured light flush into color, the silver change to 
gold, the lilies to roses, as morning dawned, and saffron suffused 
the tree-tops of the park. The dew lay on the glades, softening 
them as if to water landscape between the broad, dense shadows of 
the heavy, velvet-leaved trees. Sweet shone that morning star. 
Nature ruled over all things, even in blackened London. Love and 
Nature. Those bursting clouds, tliose beaming bars, all radiance 
and Intensity of minor tones of color; the youngest, the most deli- 
cate of hues. Ah, thus was life opening into day for him. J>y 
and by, in the far (listance, when his life’s work should be done, 
his sky would hold the full crimson glory of color; when he had 
fought against sin and ugliness, and conquered, and she would be 
his evening star. 

The bells rang out again, for very gladness as it seemed, welcom- 
ing another day. The sun had risen. It was broad day. 

The sun streaked out the golden lines distinctly from among the 
blue shadows, and brought to him, not only the well-known daily 
gladness to his youthful strength, but a yet intenser and more fer- 
vid bliss. He wms one day nearer her. He roamed all over the 
grass in the dew. Nothing occurred to remind him he was mortal, 
until the dawn, driving away the exquisite spirits of the night, 
brought .also waking sound and human movement. The calm, 
contemplative feeling of moonlight gave place to the activity of 
dawn; the fervor brought out by the sunshine, the quick, .anient, 
generous pulsations with which youth prep.ares for a coming day. 

The park g.ates opened. 

What’s the time?” called somebody to some one more respect- 
able, who kept a silver watch, as gentility of a liigher grade keeps 
a gig. 

” I’m wanting quarter to,” was the reply, abrupt and vague, but 
satisfactory, as it seemed. 

When Mrs. Nugent .and lier fair daughter .arrived at King’s Cross 
Station, Adrian Bright was there to hand I hem into their carriage, 
and c.atch the last departing glimpse from those sweet eyes. Mrs. 
Nugent was putting her parasols up in the netting, so the 03^3 
could not have been hers. 


CHAPTER XNXVl. 

“ Hell has no fury like a woman scorned.” 

“ And 1 must give him up.” Thus Linda Fraser, .alone with her 
worse self. ” This finishes all questions for me. What signifies it 
now whether I wed an honest grazier or a moneyed fool? Having 


ADRTA}^ BRIGHT. 


258 

lost my love, I cannot yet bring myself to think of the lesser joys 
of life; not even of power, ntir — art. My parched heart, wherein 
all lovely plants droop as unwatered flowers, must long lie fallow 
ere it can regain free force enough to give life to fresh affect ions. 
Ay dime! I must give him up; and for what, for whom? for a 
cliit with no soul, a butterfly, a trifler. a baby, a fool, with the face 
of a doll and the mind of a schoolgirl. He leaves me for this; he 
rates me lower than this. Oh! why did 1 not stoop to flatter his 
pride, to play upon his vanity? Could 1 not bend my spirit to this? 
Thrice idiot thtit 1 was, that I could not even use rn 3 ^self as a tool 
for my own purposes! To speak him humbly fair as my poor, 
simple, little ’Rella does when she has found a partner who can 
waltz, and wants to dance with him again. She gains her point, 
she has a pleasant partner, and — laughs at him. I should have 
gained mine — and triumphed. Had I flattered, I should have 
gained him.” 

Tears of spite coursed themselves over her rigid cheeks and firm- 
set lips; and then came a softness as she thought of Adrian in his 
cousinly, brotherly moments, when they two were friends. The 
drops rolled larger, softer. Linda was tearful now even to tragedy, 
pathetic over her soul’s death, Renounce him! Ah, why? Who 
ever willingly renounces the sunlight? So long as she could gaze 
even on his averted face, knowing him unwed, she would not ratify 
her own marriage engagement. Ezen while permitting Wilson’s 
homage in the face of dn 3 % she still held on and off with Raby, torn 
by her own double-mindedness. She cared so little for either action 
she might take that she thought the world cared less and all the 
while she was coiling the cords around herself in a network which, 
later on, she must struggle out of or die. Now she must sink to 
stagnant gloom, and lose the sunshine of his love. Ah! Adrian, jmu 
could read all nature, yet not a woman’s heart! So long as he was 
still not engaged, in what passionate silence had she stood at gaze. 
Could he once turn to her and read a poem in her eyes? AYhy 
would he not read it and be touched? A poet must have fellow- 
feeling with a poet, for so she seemed to herself now, in this mo- 
ment of deep feeling— although, as we see, with our cold, clear 
eyes, that her broken words and agitated reflections have more of 
selfishness than of poet's sympathy within them. She did not mind 
playing fast-and-loose with others, nor trampling on George Raby’s 
honest heart. And in her diction, too, there was more of rant than 
tragedy. She crept into Adrian’s lonely studio. He was in the 
house, writing to Hermione, and Linda felt a painful bliss here all 
alone, yet with the relics of her adored about her. Of whom was 
he ever thinking when not with Hermione? Had he one corner in 
his heart for her? One token that he thought of her with kindness, 
and all should be forgiven. She would school herself, steel herself, 
to be his friend, and want no more. 

She looked round the studio. Hermione in many forms, and 
other types of noble beauty wrought before last year; even his own 
face modeled as a study before the glass; and many children, those 
Pucks of his studio, the young Bright cousins, Cinderella, trying 
on the fairy-shoe, and oftenest, and most especiall}’’ masterly, the 
bold face of Robert ” le Diable,” glorious in its open candor and 


ADRIA2N BRIGHT. 


259 


careless freedom of will— a beautiful youri^j savage, as it seemed, a 
fearless young boy-hunter of backwoods. Amcmg them all Linda 
looked vainly W herself; she knew she had never sat to Adrian for 
her likeness, but there might have been some faint image of herself 
—and not one sketch she found. Yet she, too, was beautiful. 

“ He never thought of me,” she murmured; though she put her 
lips to the cold image of himself, worked in the plaster. She moved 
to a turn-table, whereon stood a veiled statue of small size; his last 
absorption in the sculptor’s clay, the work which held his thought 
even at this supreme moment of his life. She felt it with light 
lingers before removing the moist cloth. The head felt beautiful. 
It might be hers. She dared not look for fear her disappointment 
should be too great to her. 

While she was at gaze on the still veiled figure a light step 
sounded on the stones outside, and Adrian was whiEtling an opera 
air that Hermione often sang. Instinctively Linda concealed her- 
self behind a curtain drawn half across the room, to form a plain 
background. She could not bear that he should see her, as now, 
struggling with her anguish. Gayly Adrian took his place before 
his wmrk; Adrian, who had returned from joy to-day to the pros- 
pect of greater happiness to-morrow (his wedding day), to spring 
waiming into summer, with all the wealth of youth, love, and 
beauty Ws forever after. lie laughed aloud, he was so happy, so 
buoyant in his spirits. As the children’s tales tell, ‘‘ they are now 
going to live happily together ever afterward, ever afteiw’^ard.” 
Such love, such faith, w^ere his. His heart could hold his love, and 
b}’- it be enlarged to hold the loveliness of nature; but faith is 
greater than our hearts, and he must add this other heart to his, to 
share his faith, and double it, as flame lights flame. 

tie sat at his work in ecstasy of creation. Long, and yet short, 
w^as the time to Linda, stung with jealous pain, trembling with love 
and terror of discovery. He moved as jf in search of some sort of 
tools for his work. Linda lightly and swiftly opened the nearest 
door, and entered the next studio, and thence the inmost one, the 
small room— a harness-room in the other houses — which was his 
small, V inter work room, and held Ids study stove. It was the 
room which he meant this autumn to fit up for Heimione’s 
use when she should come to sit with him in his studio. 
Linda had not been in here for months. Now she stood spell- 
bound. Here w^as what she had been in search of. Here was his 
last autumn's w'ork; that late autumn and winter when he was 
bereft of hope of Hermione; when at Christmas all others made 
merry and rejoiced, he came here and threw' his anguished iieart 
into a model of the abandoned Dido, that queenly Dido, at once so 
powerful and so wu'etched. And the Dido had the face of Linda 
Fraser. He had flung the whole force of his despair into this 
image, before Tante had consoled him, and the aw'akening light of 
the year had soothed him into working on the Spirit of Ih ligion;’' 
which brought him calm, the calm of trust, and also peace, begot- 
ten of conscious pow'er to command a future. 

It wms a large plaster cast of a life-sized figure. Didone Ahhan- 
donata the legend traced around the stand; Didone Abhan- 

donata spoke in every muscle of the figure— a grand figure, an em- 


260 


ADRIAN BRIGHT, 


bodimeat of antique tragedy — and the face was that of Linda Fraser! 
Abandoned Dido! Did he mean to insult her? She was stung to 
the quick. 

With swift but silent step she returned to the great studio. What 
cared she for discovery now? She would throw the insult in his 
teeth; she would trample upon him, and on her love. Good heaven! 
For this she had loved him. To be scorned, perhaps laughed at, 
by him and by IJerinione, as they traced the likeness of the deserted 
one in the forsaken woman here. 

Adrian was now seated before his turn table, modeling some del- 
icate details of foliage, still smiling over his work, looking like an 
emanation of culm happiness, or the god of youthful hope tempered 
with peace; yet with no pagan, but a Christian beam of joy. 

ile was absorbed in his sculptor’s clay. Great powers! in what 
theme? Softh' behind him stepped Linda Fraser, and silently fixed 
her gaze upon her rival. Hermione’s image breathed upon her in a 
fanciful, ideal form; and, ah! bow wondrouslv lovely. Hermione 
as “ A Dream ” — a dream to-day, to be reality to morrow. lier- 
mione’s form, as seen in the vision of a poet-lover, imaged forth in 
those melting, shadowy lines, so firm and yet so evanescent. “ A 
Dream,” yet the loving and lovely Hermione, perhaps rather a guard- 
ian angel, a nymph-like form with angel face. Softly behind the 
sculptor stepped Linda Fraser. Her shadow caused him to look 
up, and he caught the gaze of hatred and aversion with which she 
regarded him. Like Dido, rolling her eyes hither and thither, as if 
uncertain where the lightning of her anger should descend, 

“ With silent glances she survey’s his whole person. 

Then, thus inflamed with wrath, breaks forth.” 

” I asked not for your love. What right have you to scorn me, to 
meet my friendship with insiilt? Surely our long ties of relation- 
ship should have forbidden this, even if the feeling of a gentleman 
has no place in your heart. You go to happiness, and you leave a 
stab behind, a stab in the dark, a serpent in the grass to sting me 
who never harmed jmu, who only — only — only loved you. She 
checked the sob. She would not melt, but lasbed herself again to 
frenzy. ” You are a secret assassin. An assassin — worse. You 
will lay open io all the world, in imperishable marble, the tale of 
my love and 3mur scorn. My love is turned to fury; away with the 
sight of this— this weak, baby face that has beguiled your blinded 
heart, this temptress who has brought you low enough to stoop to 
the unmanliness of loading a woman, jmur friend who trusted jmu, 
w'ith derision. Go, 1 love you not, 1 despise you; I shatter your 
image in my heart as 1 shatter these of that poor fool.” 

She raised her arm and dashed the statuette, and a plaster bust 
that stood beside it, to the ground, wdiere they lay, a heap of clay 
minded with fragments of white plaster. ‘‘ The Dream ” was a 
dream after all. 

” Linda Fraser, are you mad?” cried Adrian, staying her arm as 
she seemed in act to strike and shatter blindly and at random, as an 
enraged bull, the other images of her unconscious rival. 

JSlot mad, but scornful, she looked like a Medusa in her beautiful 


ADRIAK BRIGHT. 261 

fury. Masnad, frenzied, demoniac, ay, possessed by a hundred evil 
spirits, but not mad. 

“ Live, live,” she cried. “ and sink lower and more deep, as the 
prettiness you worship fades into shriveling and commonplace, and 
may your future life be blasted with the doom of never rising, never- 
attaining your soul’s ideal. May you live and grovel, ever fettered 
by the prison-bars of aspiration blighted, of dull domesticity. From 
Michael Angelo, from Phidias, that you were, may yon sink and 
ever sink until the angel of release at last, in his mercy, bids you 
make her tombstone; then may, perchance, come a resurrection lor 
your spirit. Miscreant! A higher aim shall ever haunt you like a 
fury; iu dreams you shall be what once you were; waking, you 
shall be ever powerless to create. Men will ask where is the gifted 
sculptor who was to be at the head of art in England? And they 
shall learn that he is sunk iu sloth, sunk to the level of Circe’s 
swine, because he acted basely, treacherously, to a friend, to a de- 
fenseless woman.” She seemed borne down, bent, by the weight 
of her maledictions. “Yet I once loved him,” she murmured, 
feebly, and tottered, fainted, fell, at the foot of the autograph image 
of the sculptor, among the shreds and clay fragments of the once- 
lovely statues she had broken. 

Wiiat did all this mean? It was impossible to unriddle the whole 
of this mystery. Only one thing was clear, that Linda, with her 
fiery heart and strong passions, had once furiously loved Adrian as 
now she hated him; and what man is proof against the knowiedge 
of a woman’s love? Kindly he raised the graceful figure, the head 
bleeding from the sharp edge of a broken piece of the plaster cast. 
At this moment the studio door opened, and w^as silently and swiftly 
shut. He took no heed, but lifted Linda on to the divan and 
stanched the blood, and bound the wound with a bandage stripped 
from a purple drapery, then quickly fetched Tante and told her 
somewhat of the scene that had taken place. The two women were 
alone when Linda came to herself. She sobbed on her aunt’s 
shoulder. 

“ He should not have done it, should he? It was unworthy of 
him so to scorn me, to descend to satirize my hopeless love.” 

“ Poor Linda! What is it? What has Adrian done? He tells 
me he is as innocent as a babe of any thought of scofiing at your 
love, which he never knew till now, and which 1 cannot hear of 
and believe. Why is all this, Linda? We only knew you as en- 
gaged to another, and. if at times 1 had some suspicions, your own 
act and deed drove them out. Explain this strange idea to me.” 

“1 will let it speak for itself.” She stood upright, her liead 
bound with that blood-stained, puij)le diadem. Pale and tottering, 
she dragged her aunt to the curtained door and to the inner studio, 
and then knelt exhausted on the fioor, looking up at the statue with 
liaggard face and vengeful eyes. “ Abandoned Dido, with my face! 
He not only refuses my love, but he insults it.” 

“My poor Linda,” said the good Tante, gently reproachful; 
“ you have, indeed, deceived yourself, and charged our Adrian with 
a crime of which he is incapable. It is his own unhappiness he has 
embodied in this statue. You remember his hopeless love last year, 
his sadness, and how he was ever in his studio alone, wrestling with 


262 


ADKIAK BRIGHT. 


bis grief, until he bravely conquered it by work. That the face is 
yours is an accident, done because your type is most opposite to 
Hermione’s and yet beautiful. It was, indeed, a necessity of art, 
but it is almost as if he asked .your friendship to console him.” 

Linda was mute and thoughtful. Again she had been blind. 
Again liad Xante shown herself the truer poet, the one who can 
divine. 

It was not long before Adrian returnedo Linda spoke. 

” I ask you to forgive me, Adrian; though I never can replace 
your lovely statue.” She looked up with a blush that gave a R-mi- 
nine charm to her face it seldom had. Never had sin; been more 
dangerously beautiful; never, had Adrian’s heart been free, would 
she have been nearer victory than in this hour of her shameful de- 
feat. ” Forgive me, Adrian,” repealed she, ” and let me be again 
— your sister,” she meant to say, but she changed it into ” friend.” 

” Shake hands upon it,” said he, heartily and very kindly; for he 
had surmised much of what had been in Linda’s mind, and now, 
liuding her before the Dido, he guessed the cause of her outbreak. 
It was not possible for him to allude to it; he felt their aunt had 
done so, and explained all, and he was glad to be friends again with 
Linda. He wished well to all the world this day, and especially to 
Linda, whom he admired sincerely, and with an affection almost as 
brotherly as that he felt for Cinderella, or any of the rest of his 
aunt’s numerous flock. 

Linda wept much that night, but never again did she breathe a 
word to living soul, save one, of her once-time love for Adrian 
Bright, nor of her frenzy of jealous hatred. And Adrian had no 
time to think further of the scene, for he, and pretty Cinderella for 
a bridemaid, with her blush- rose dress and graceful hat and a huge 
case of bridal bouquets from Covent Garden market, w’ere off to 
Leeds and happiness forever after by the evening train. 

To-morrow was Adrian’s w^edding-day. 

Saffo wondered, for it was she who opened Adrian’s studio door, 
and pondered on what she had, in that twinkling, witnessed. What 
was the meaning of the scene? Why was Adrian kneeling by 
Linda’s side? She knew" nothing of Linda’s wound, and could 
only conjecture that some attitude was being sought for a group in 
sculpture. She understood that these things are difRculties in the 
tine arts, and the solution satistied her for— the present 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

■" Away before me to sweet beds of flowers: 

Love-thoughts lie rich, w'hen canopied with bowers.” 

Twelfth Night 

Leaving all the fine array of wedding-presents— which had been 
exhibited at Leeds, to Mrs. Nugent’s great glorification, and Her- 
mione’s innocent pleasure in new toys, and in that her friends 
should so love her— we will turn to contemplate the more real 
wealth of love unadorned wdth gold, pinchbeck, and costly or pre- 
tentious gifts; where the gifts are i^ersonal, unpurchasable, heav- 
enly. In her gratitude for allection, Hermione never looked at its 


ADRIAN BRianT. 


2C3 


tokens otherwise than as tokens. Inexperienced as yet, she could 
not guess that these things had their etiquette, and must be duly, 
and forevermore, displayed according to the self-assigned rank of 
the giver. 

Adrian viewed the display as we miglit do a shopful of toys be- 
fore which a child’s eyes sparkle, though we do not care for them 
ourselves. Adrian did not admire the wedding-gifts; of course, he 
could not, being an artist; but he lived in her joy, in the ray of her 
young eyes, for, knowing so much less, she was so much younger 
than he. It were truer to say knowledge is age, than that knowl- 
edge is power. Alas! Our young ones are prematurely aged; not 
everlastingly children, like the Greeks: not children of whom is the 
kingdom of heaven; but unripe men of whom is the kingdom of 
dust — y^ea, even gold dust. 

But Ilermione was young and unsophisticated, and she was happy 
in seeing her mother pleased and Adrian loving, and she enjoyed it 
all as part of the day of bliss. 

Leaving these things and all their festive friends, and avoiding 
Bath, the well-swept and genteel, and Harrogate and Leamington, 
the comfortable and fashionable, the young couple went to a hid- 
den nook in Devonshire foi' their honeymoon. 

Here, in a cottage by the leafy shore, bowered in a combe of ferns 
and flowers, did they pass together through the sunrise of life, 
luxuriating in abundant simplicity, a form of wealth unknowm to 
cities, enjoying quaint, old-fashioned talk in old-world words with 
homely, kindly folk, whose eyes moistened with glad sympathy as 
they lived over again their best past days iu seeing the" sweet love 
mystery-drama once more acted before them. And tiny nothings, 
unrecordably tiny, each one a touch, and no more, of color from 
the master-hand which paints all beauteous pictures out of seeming 
nothing, and simple with a microscopic sweetness, trickled in crystal 
sand down that honeymoon hour-glass. Atoms of happiness glinted 
among their wanderings by sunn}^ shores, and poetical night-breath- 
ings neath the honeymoon, Canopus for their canopy, in shady 
alleys of the mind, ’mong sweet and pretty vaguenesses of talk 
and plan, such as spring naturally beneath the moonlight, magical 
as mushrooms, light and fantastical as elves that sport in fairy 
rings about and among them; greennesses impalpable, yet real as 
fairy rings. Oh! sw^eet life of dreams realized when the fairy 
graces of life, Fantasy, Liberty, Simplicity, felt, but unseen, guide 
the bright way, with Venus and wdlh Cupid looking on. 

Their life in the cottage was one of the simplest in seeming; 
richest, fullest, in fact; a school for both. They learned to live, 
and carried on their learning of the verb to loveu\)lo the very border 
of its future tense, perfect and pluperfect. Yes, their life was of 
the simplest, yet not dull. Of course not, will be said— of course 
not, in a honeymoon! but I am not speaking of how it seemed to 
them, but of how it really was, had there been a cold observer to 
know the truth about it. Dullness is not simplicity, nor simplicity 
dullness; one may be interestingly simple, or the reverse. 

Yet this life w^as only varied by the sun and moon, and by the 
tide, that deep, gentle breathing of the universe; but the rose and 
the myrtle always twined about them; incense from the earth and 


ADMAIL BRIGHT. 


264 \ 

sea breathed ever upward toward lliem; heavenly breezes played 
^olian whispers in every tree, and san<; to them on every wave; 
and they loved each other in a sweet monotone that could not rise 
and never fell, a tone caught from the eternal song of heaven. Much 
of mystery and matter is concentrated in that luminous crystal 
which w'e call a star. So was this honeymoon a drop of amber 
honey sucked from many flowers. 

Adrian rested in a blissful holiday; while Hermione, Who had 
never toiled, brought all her newly discovered treasures to him to 
change from common ore to gold; and he, enraptured, saw that 
whatsoever beaiitiful she found inspired a kindred impulse in her 
mind, and lay there, a chrysalis for future awakening, an unfolding 
as of a beautiful book writ with new poems. 

Adrian reveled in her enchanting simplicity. He who had 
hitherto best loved to foregather with women of trained and cul- 
tivated mind; as Tante, with whom he talked on equal terms as with 
a friend of his own sex and standing, or Linda Fraser, with whom 
he felt ever urged on to excel, to outstrip her, and assert the ex- 
pected superiority of man. Linda’s arrogance had to be met and 
quelled, not by equal arrogance, but with that heavy mallet, the 
preponderance of superior power; and this gave speech with her the 
interest of the chase, the excitement of battle. He now best loved 
the wild and sinale flowers of intellect, with their woodland per- 
fume about them. There was no competitive effort in his young 
wife’s company, but rest and peace and perfect bliss. Tante’s 
gracious knowledge lay over facts like light over Nature, and the 
elder Brights never brayed about the deeper culture and the higher 
intellect, which brayine: covers so much stupidity of ignorant, pre- 
tentious people. But Adrian had lived in the world and heard 
the world chatter, oh! so different from Tante’s kindly home talk, 
mixed with good solid food for the mental growth of every day ; or the 
playful utterance of Hermione; which was like a sparkling brook 
that babbles of green fields while laying bare its own clear depths 
and the jeweled pebbles therein. This innocence of Hermione’s 
had for Adrian all the charm of novelty. He was awakening a 
child, or rather a Galatea, and his teaching was to her divine, while 
to him it was delicious to be gazed up to by her soft, lustrous, in- 
telligent eyes, as by him she was brought up to know^ real beauty. 
I say not to feel it, that she intuitively did; but Adrian unfolded the 
canons of art, he reasoned on its ethics, and showed why certain 
rules were right, and why some things were wrong, therefore ugly. 
To Hermione this teaching was like the light of the sun opening up 
revelations of what is already there, and drawing it up newly re- 
vealed like perennial plants. Was not this, then, a school to both? 
and most to him who learned in teaching, and saw what could be 
accepted by a pure and innocent mind at once as lovely; whereby^ 
himself perceived what was merely conventional, an overlay of the 
schools, a palimpsest on the word of truth. 

They had no books, but Adrian talked like those Greeks who 
learned wisdom, virtue, and poetry in leafy academes. 

How delicious on these xAugust mornings to rise early and rove 
arm-in-arm over those soft, carpeted downs, springy to the feet and 
fragrant with the crushing, and look over the pearly-tinted coast- 


ADRIAJq- BRIGHT. 


265 

line, and indentations of cove and cave, all meltins: vaporously into 
the blue; that dazzlin^c blue freshness tempered with sunny warmth. 
What would be heat down low on the shore, is here, upon the 
downs, cooled and chastened, a bracin^^, yet deliciDus, sunniness; 
giving vigor and light-heartedness, and making one long to frolic 
and clamber up and down those briuky aerial pathways. Let us 
leave them there awhile. 


CHAPTER XXXVlll. 

And so we leave the sweet face fondly there, 

Be thy beauty thy sole duty, 

Let ail hope of all beyond lie there.” 

R. Browning. 

There must be, so long as we live in this dispensation of the 
world, a departure out of every paradise. Autumn shivers into ice, 
the soh mists that bring the mushrooms blacken into the fogs of 
November. 

But where love is, there is always happiness. A sweet truism, 
unrecognized, because we look to pelf or place, learning or leisure, 
to make our happiness: which is not to be done. Oh! that we could 
always draw the inference, and know what crop it pays us best to 
cultivate. Love is seldom spontaneous (though it sometimes is); 
we are loved for being sweet and lovable, and lovely, as was Her- 
mione, or cheerful, like little Flitters, or entertaining, as was Saffo, 
and hated for being unpleasant, as was and for preach- 

ing. 1 won’t preach. A woman has no business to be a preacher; 
she should only narrate. 

But one may go from Paradise to Paradise; and to come home to 
one’s own home, that has been put in delightful order for one, is to 
lind a domestic Eden. To have a fine new doll’s house to play with, 
while one is young and babyish enough to enjoy it. and to have 
a playfellow to share it with. How nice, hovv charming! — How 
difficult it is to stick to one’s resolutions, for 1 am vowed to narrate, 
not moralize. 

Mrs. Nugent finished arranging the house while the young couple 
were away, spending three busy weeks in London for that purpose, 
yo that it was complete in all requirements but one, which, some- 
how, never appears in furnishers’ catalogues at all. There was no 
room for growth. 

There was no place empty; it was all too complete; nothing could 
be added or altered without the previous destruction of something 
else. 

Being the confection of an upholsterer, and a fashionable lady, 
nothing, of course, is perfectly admirable in itself, not even a cur- 
tain; and the chance of seeing a precious drapery hanging where a 
commonplace one now fills up the space is rendered impossible from 
the fact of what is there being too good to throw away; and it can- 
not be put elsewhere, as elsewhere is fully furnished already. 

“ If it is neat and nice, why not be content with it as it 

is?” 

Socrates.---^' We can’t help ourselves; wo have no alternative hut 
contentment/' 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


266 

Plato.— ' What becomes, then, of free-will and the liberty of the 
subject, the dignity of man and his aspirations to the beautiful? 
A contented mind is a perpetual— beast, as you so exquisitely said.” 

Socrates.— ' K proposition which will yet be admitted among 
revealed truths. Proceed, my pupil.” 

Plato . — ” The whole metaphysical world seems to hang on a cur- 
tain-rod.” 

Socrates.— ' It doth hang thereon as truly as the elephant that 
sustains the world standeth on a tortoise. T ou were really pos- 
sessed of all this knowledge before. Those who do not know, have 
still in their minds a latent knowledge.”— (Extract from Plato; 
“ Dialogues tvith Bocrates on the Goodness of Beauty.” Freely 
translated.) 

But this is merely my grumbling, and the feeling that has 
been deduced from much experience. Hermione Bright was at 
the blissful age when one has no experience, and Adrian was en- 
tirely sympathetic; he read his own happiness in the picture-book 
of her face. 

Mrs. Bright and her elder girls came to find everything pleasant, 
and to point out features of merit, such as the golden beech-tree in 
their garden; and ’Bella had a delightful game of play with her 
friend’s doll’s house. Saft’o looked upon all the chattels as perish- 
able, and therefore unlikely to be there to interfere with Ilermione’s 
happiness when she should be full-grown. The rosy curtains would 
be faded and gone just in time to be replaced by the loveliness 
Hermione and her friends would have embroidered. 

“ There was not really much to praise,” said Safto. ” 1 would 
not have praised it truthfully. But 1 took out a dispensation be- 
forehand, and compromised my conscience for love of Hermione, 
and that makes all the diffeience between me and Ihe unprevaricat- 
ing critic. Otherwise I am no better than Linda, and not nearly as 
handsome.” 

For Linda Fraser came to see, and “ damn with faint praise,” 
and plume herself upon her chilling truthfulness. It was cood 
enough for Hermione and that was all. 

Saiffo felt that houses may be made too comfortable to be sub- 
lime, as a church well -cushioned and curtained is only^fitted up for 
comfortable piety. Worship kneels, or falls prostrate on the pave- 
ment. 

“But,” she said, “what has our pretty Hermione to do with 
sublimity? We associate no ideas of sublimity with a rosebud.” 

Little Flitters came, and screamed with rapture over every to,v. 
The bridal pair had been at home just a fortnight, and Linda already 
reproached Hermione for weaning away Adrian from his heart, 
his real life. 

He was not one, she said, to rest in a Capua of delights and lose 
his hard-won glory. Hermione smiled ; she could afford to smile. 

The young pair had been to the studio at Welbeck Street, and all 
they did there was to bring away a cab-full of clay and tools, and 
the smallest turn-table, and set it up in the light lean-to scullery 
behind the second kitchen, which had w^hitewashed walla and plenty 
of water laid on. 

“ You might grow ferns and water-plants in the sink,” said the 


ADRIAN- BRIGHT. 


2(57 

suggestive Flitters. They did so, and they wreathed the window 
with Coboea scanrleus; and Adrian built a divan and carpeted it 
with Eastern rugs for Hermione, and here she brought her book, or 
a basket of silks and wools, and sat by Adrian while he worked. 
It was the only part of the house they could expand in; and as the 
genteel cook did not much approve of such continual running in 
and out of her kitchen as Flitters’s and others’ 'many visits entailed, 
they built a bowery path through the garden to their own precious 
scullery back-door. 

Flitters w^as all over the house in a moment, and full of talk and 
admiration; Linda never seemed to care to move beyond the state- 
rooms, the Louis Quinze drawing-room, and the bookless Jacobean 
library, the ugliest features of the house, and which Adrian and his 
wife most natually avoided. They seemed to make these over to 
the patronizing housemaid in place of the whitewashed back office 
of which they had robbed her. Linda saw nothing of the home- 
life behind the scenes, what the cook and housemaid called “ the 
goings-on.” 

Linda pitied Adrian sincerely when she saw these rooms in fancy 
dress, wdiich reminded Adrian of James 1. bowing clumsily to 
Madame Du Barry, supposing thev met at a fancy ball. She knew 
b}’’ education and long use, not by intuition, the artist’s feeling of 
needing drapery and backgrounds; a want by no means to be satis- 
fied by trimmed window-curtains, and looking-glass, and girandoles, 
in bad imitation of the bad style of Louis XV., which brought every 
object well forward, and yet where, as Flitters said, ‘‘ You can 
never see if you had a black on your nose, because the candlesticks 
and the engraving come in the way.” and gilding all so new as to 
make one positively hail the action of London’s smoke and fog. The 
tints were light and bridal, without being delicate: garish pink, 
and staring gold, and brightly burnished steel, over-suggestive of 
the housemaid’s daily toil, glittered where a bit of greeny bronze 
w’ould have softened the light and harmonized with the pink; 
though it might not have tempered the obtrusive pattern, in beaded 
scroll-work, of the fender-stool, with gilt and writhing legs of com- 
posite anatomy of bird, and dog, and mermaid, and griffin, wdiich 
Safto called, in an aside, “That fatal gift of beauty,” and which 
needed all Adrian’s fortitude to endure it. But Hermione remem- 
bered it was worked so in pink and beads by kind mamma, because 
Hermione said pink was her favorite color. The affection overcame 
the distaste of the result — and this is best. But none save Hermione 
here felt the strong links of life-long custom, and a child’s love. 

When Hermione said she liked pink furniture she had a vision of 
an angle of a room draped with soft, gleainy stuff with varying rosy 
bloom, such as she had heard of w hen Adrian told of the rose-room 
in the small house by the Washburn; where tall-backed chairs of 
Milanese work, geometrically inlaid with pearl and ebony, were 
clothed and grouped with all the melting tone of charity s own 
color; where draperies of sea-shell pink, woven with silver and car- 
nations, somewhere in the East, w^ere heightened with a flame colored 
cushion, and toned and raellow^ed by a purpled rug. But pink or 
rose-color, as translated by a Mrs. Nugent with the help of the up- 
holsterer’s dictionary, is apt to disenchant, as when a schoolboy 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


268 

reD<lors Catullus into the blankest of blank verse, with here a flaw, 
lliere a liitch, anon translaleil as from a bit of right dog-Latin. 

The result was that tlie Kose-dii-Barry drawing-room w^as painful, 
and they preferred the scullery, or even the bookless library, where 
they speedily placed pretty things, and models, and bits of art^ or 
happiness’ relics on the empty book-shelves; and spread the pict- 
ures, their books and their personalty, about; where Adrian’s felt 
hat lying on a cane chair made a presence when he was away, and 
Hermione’s MS. song, that she was arranging to some not yet in- 
vented tune, made an unheard melody for him. 

llermione went to see Linda’s rooms with a wish to learn. She 
felt herself lacking in the true art-knowledge, and she did not dare 
as yet to follow Saffo’s glowing but unmodeled theories. She sat 
contemplating the neutral-tinted walls of Linda’s reception-room, 
trying to discover why dull colors are incontestably right, although 
so gloomy. Slie could not see the rationale of this any more than 
Saffo could see it, but in her sw^eet luimility she took its rightness 
for granted, because dogmatized by others whom she considered 
wiser than herself; wdiile Saffo maintained that dim and dull walls 
were altogether wrong. 

“ We are not wild beasts, to want to dwell in caverns,” said she. 

” Man in his perfect state was set to dwell in bowers of Paradise 
among roses, myrtles, and blue canopies; emblazoned, for his first 
view at morning and his last at night, with lints of gold and crim- 
son, fiame-color and vermilion, heightened with gorgeous contrasls 
of uall and purple, and softest hues of daffodil and tender green, of 
amber and palest, loveliest pink, embroidered all about with gayest 
flowers on quilt of greenest grass.” 

But the multitude cried out on Saffo, and Hermione had all her 
life been held in awe of the multitude. 

Linda was at work on her Academy picture, but so well advanced 
in it that she had time to spare for lofty talk on art with Adrian; 
while llermione sat down to stare at pallid apple-patterns in gray- 
green, and trj’^ to make herself like that style of decoration which 
represents neither the coloring of Titian, nor the design of Michael 
A.ngelo, nor yet any truth under the sun. 

Hermione had, as we know, an instinctive feeling for the beauti- 
ful. She felt that her Rose-du-Barry drawing-room was wrong, 
and she tried to learn why. Adrian would not teach her, because 
he would not grieve his darling, he had rather she were happy; but 
Linda’s taste was supposed to be perfect. She herself supposed it 
to be so, and did not mind speaking the truth as she believed it. 
Therefore tiie bride sat down to try to find beauty, or the prin- 
ciples of beauty, on those chastened walls, and was vexed that she 
could not apprehend their excellence, for in sooth it was not there; 
but, as Saffo truly said, “only convention and affectation; a 
gloomy Puritanism in taste, representing the skeleton and mol der- 
ing of departed joys, or embryos of unborn affections.” The 
study was made none the less depressing by the sound of Linda 
talking high above her head, and occasionally condescending to 
speak to Hermione as one might to a child, or one entirely ignorant 
of art. 

Had Hermione felt less crushed by the weight of this ponderous 


ABUT A K JRBTGHT. 


269 


jargon, she would liave seen that luucli of Linda’s talk was as 
frivolous as the fashionable gossip oi her mother’s friends at Leeds, 
as she talked to Adrian of what had been done in the artist’s world 
while he was away; the tattle of the studios, the McGilps, and the 
Fripp-ses, and others who could not get their pictures hung in the 
Academy, if himir at all, and who were convinced that a baleful 
jealousy among the Academic clique kept their works from the 
longing e3’’es of the public. 

“ They are absolutely afraid of Robusto McGilp, and so they 
keep him out,” laughed Linda, secure of getting her own pictures 
well hung; as she had exhibited in the Academy before, and had 
had her handling called ” spirited ” by the Oliograpldc, who recom- 
mended her to be “true to herself;” advice which she meant to 
follow. 

Linda, in her long, sweeping gown of subdued color and soft 
stuff, armed with her palette and mahl-stick, looked the incarna- 
tion of taste and culture; therefore, had she talked the utterest non- 
sense, Hermione would have thought her words held hidden depths 
of meaning. And Linda had a way of looking at Hermione as if 
from a higher standpoint, as a queen in the royal box might look at 
mimic majesty upon the stage: the stage-queen finer and more 
jeweled yet only a thing of paint and tinsel after all. The bride, 
too, had a self-consciousness of fancy dress that dashed her, and 
made her Linda’s easy victim. 

Hermione’s dress as a wife was more elaborate than as a maiden. 
Mrs. Nugent had supplied a large trousseau, and she plumed her- 
self upon her generosity. Taute and her husband thought it would 
have been better had she given the young couple the sum she spent. 

‘‘ But then she would not have had the pleasure of spending it,” 
said Uncle Jos, shrewdl3^ The actual spending of money is such a 
joy to the Mrs. Nugents of the world. Mrs. Bright could not un- 
derstand pleasure in this form; to her it was a weariness of the flesh 
to “ shop,” and the most prosaic part of one’s life besides. 

The bill of the trousseau was large, and the clothes had two great 
faults, they were too many and too fashionable. The ornaments 
were not ornaments at all, but only decoration for savages. Jewelry 
bought because it is etiquette to buy and wear it, is nearly always 
vile. We should save our money until we chance upon a beautiful 
thing, and then secure it. If we go out and deliberately buy a 
necklace, ten to one it will be a bad necklace, that is, bad in point 
of art, and no jewel. Our only safety lies in precious stones which 
are intrinsically rich in light and color. But bujdng trinkets does 
not often mean purchase of precious stones; it is oftenest poor trash, 
a something that you are told is ” all the rage in Paris.” 

” The dresses seem almost too fine for me to put on,” Hermione 
had said, as she held up the shawls and fingered the fringed flounces 
with a pleased, yet half-awed smile. Still, she liked the stylish, 
modish things. Fashion like this had its novelty, and she was 
young. The pleasure was a good deal spoiled when Adrian inno- 
cently replied, ” Yes, darling, i like you in ymur old gowns best,” 
He only meant that she wanted no adornment; but she would have 
liked to have him play with her with the clothes, to play at dress- 
ing-up, and to tell to how like grown-up people she looked in the 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


matronly garb. She would have acted being a married ladj'’, and 
the play would have carried arnusement with it, and none would 
have been the worse for the pretty evanescent comedy. Tliat, as it 
was, was lost, and the child was chilled. Yet, indeed, Adrian was 
right ill every sense but one. To dress Hermioue in sumptuous 
robes was superfluous, as gilding the lily flower, or inlaying the 
ivory shoulder of Pelops. 

Adrian did not like Hermione’s new robes. lie thought they 
were too old for her; he better liked her soft and simple girlish 
dresses. He said, she, in so many flounces, was like a s'weed song 
swamped in its accompaniment. Hermione laughed; she also 
learned or tried to learn. This was an entirely new life for her in 
more ways than one. Nobody she knew now busied themselves 
with the fashions, or regulated their lives by the Lady's KewspaiJer, 
whereas it had been the study, the business, of her former life; and 
even an Othello misses his usual occupation, 

Adrian and Ilermiotie soon took iheir daily walk to Welbeck 
Street, escorting Linda as far as Baker Street Station, and putting 
her into her train for Gower Street, on her way to the British 
Museum to draw from the antique; and Hermione sat awhile as a 
model to Adrian, singing him songs to her guitar, which she was 
learning for the purpose of bringing music into these hours. Then, 
when he was at work on other sculpture, she went in to see Tante, 
and have a talk with her upon the problems of the morning; and to 
extract from her the secret of why the “ a3Sthetic” decorations are 
superior to the pink roses she prefers. Tante explains it easily. 

“Background,” she says, “should not be obtrusive; that is, it 
should not stare at us. The printed roses were so badly drawn, and 
they distressed us in many ways. The pallid patterns are no better, 
but they are less showy, so they do not ofTend us so much.” 

“ It is but a fashion, then,” said Hermione, better satisfied now 
that she saw this acquired taste was not necessary to her growth in 
art-knowledge, “ And there is no vital truth behind itV” 

“ No, it veils no truth. It is satisfied with itself, and deathly.” 

“ I have another trouble, Tante. Adrian docs not love flounces, 
and I do not hold by them at alh I should be glad, indeed, if I 
could get rid of some of the weight of this skirt. But what can 1 
do? They say it is proper to be dressed like this.” 

“And so you have come to me, 5 mu pretty little dear. Well, 
don’t take me for a model, for 1 wear things that I should loathe to 
see on other people. 1 know what is right, but 1 cannot do it. 
C'est plus fort que inoi. I can’t resist a bit of color; few people 
with warm hair of my sort can. So 1 put a bow where it is un- 
necessary (for a bow should always tie something), and I stick a 
brooch in the bow, and Saffo laughs, and calls it butter upon pie- 
crust, But for you, sw'cetheart, 1 sliould like better things — not 
these miles of frilling, and flaps and flops of fashion ’’—she lifted 
one of the flounces— “ but a sculptiiresque taste; for your style 
would bear it. Adrian would rave with joy if lie saw you in your 
old gowns again, or in a dress like Linda’s—” 

Hermione fell a pang, she knew not why; but she was generous 
enough to admit that the advice was good. Mrs. bright perceived 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 271 

the Stab, and drew her own conclusion. She was tenderer than 
ever to Hermione. 

“ Or a housemaid’s,” she went on, as if there had been no break 
in her sentence, still less one with a history in it. ” Adrian says 
‘ housemaids are the best-dressed women in England on week days, 
and the worst-dressed on Sundays.’ ” 

Mrs. Bright did not like to hand her over to Saffo, because she 
always called herself unripe. 

” Darling girl,” said her mother, ” she is not so much as unripe 
yet; she is only in blossom, trying to set for fruit, and her shower 
will not fall.” 

Ilermione schooled herself to admire J.iinda’s taste in dress, as she 
had done her taste in room decoration; and with more success, for 
a severe simplicity was its characteristic. Ilermione respected 
this, and tried to follow it under the difficulty of having everything 
already made, and feeling it not right to waste Adrian’s substance 
in extravagance of reform. So she prudently pursued what Satfo 
called half-measures, that is, out of every two flounces removing 
one, where she could do so without destroying her dress, and wait- 
ing till time and natural decay of raiment should free her from the 
trammels of passementerie and fringe. Oh. if she might without 
offense give to Daisy Flitters that wonderfully fashionable min- 
gling of pink-and-black silk fringe and silk network in a robe that 
had made the little creature shriek with rapture at its contemplation, 
and call it by all the sweet superlatives of admiration. 

Linda could not understand Hermione’s quiet, yet passionate, 
humility. She could scarcely estimate her own passionate pride. 
She fell into the usual error of fancying the loud-toned feeling, the 
self-asserting character, must be the strong one. Herself reserved 
in appearance, while stormy within, she thought she also reserved 
strength; really she had little strength to reserve. Her outworks 
gave way to small attacks, or on slight occasions. 

Linda had always assumed airs of a Mentor to Hermione, who 
was wise enough to extract the teaching from her discourse, and 
sweet-tempered enough to speak thankfully in return; but she never 
felt with Linda the same wuirm atmosphere as with Flitters, and 
especially with Tante and her family, among whom she expanded, 
like the svreet flower that she was. Linda’s hand was heavy, and 
bruised her petals. Flitters said of Linda, that ” she gave her a 
chill, as a draught of cold air upon a neuralgic cheek.” And this hard- 
ness was her characteristic; at once her failing and her strength. 
As for Adrian, long as he had known her, it is natural that he knew 
her not as she realTy was— ungovernable and haughty to all others, 
even to her encouraged admirers. She was soft only to him. 

Linda’s excuse for her hardness to one so gentle as Hermione 
must be that she never saw her young cousin at her best. The 
blame is also hers. So it is always. Had we eyes opened by love, 
we should always see beauty, and Eden might be ours again. Linda 
preached and instructed, bid she did not warm. Time went on, 
and she did not soften. 

” She is like the cold marble,” thought poor Hermione, with a 
sigh. ” It is BO hard — she is so hard, so hard!” She was uncon- 
sciously learning to hate the marble for its hardness, its coldness. 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


m 

aud for something else. Adrian had begun to sculpture his latest, 
loveliest model in the marble, and he worked ofteuer in his studio 
ill VVelbeck Street than by the bowery-window near the scullery 
fountain in Maida Vale. The pink drawing-room was never used 
at all. Holland covers hid its pinkness. 

“Its roses have faded to the unhealthy hue of brown, hollaud, 
said Flitters. “ Let me at least wake up the piano;” and Flitters 
thunder-rolled the bass, and roused besides a hundred silvery 
tongues. 

Hermione sat by her side, dreaming. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

“ It is the little rift within the lute, 

That by and by will make the music mute.” 

There were many parties of all sorts given in honor of the young 
sculptor’s return to Loudon with his lovely bride. (People are glad 
enough to have a reason for a party.) Among these was a grand 
dinner to be given by Sir Gilbert and Lady Glory Amedroz. Mr. 
aud Mrs. Bright were talking of the prospect of this party with 
Linda Fraser, who was as much as ever at Welbeck Street. They 
were all going to the dinner, the impressionable Lady Glory having 
been captivated by Linda’s beauty when she met her once while 
calling on Mrs. Bright. Linda Fraser had come to-day especially 
with tlie intention of talking over a party that she herself had it on 
her mind to give. 

“ I hope there will be several ladies of title, besides our bride, to 
absorb the first fogies,” said Tante. “ I like to be taken in to din- 
ner by the fourth-rate man; he can generally talk.” 

“Poor Hermione, she will have the first fogy for some time to 
come,” said Mr. Bright. 

“ It is a drawback to matrimony,” laughed Tante. 

“ But Amedroz is not a fogy, and it is a pleasure to talk to him,” 
said Uncle Jos. 

Linda thought Hermione would only care for I he distinction. 

“ You always disparage Hermione, Linda,” remonstrated Mr. 
Bright. “Ido not think you are clear-sighted enough to see the 
beauty of her character.” 

“ Y’ou are thinking of the beauty of her face, uncle. She is really 
one ot those women who have no character at all.” 

“ Better that than a bad character.” 

Linda looked proud. He did not mean much. He just saw an 
opening for a sharp speech, that sounded like an epigram as he 
uttered it. 

“But I deny your implication entirely; you would have us all 
think that Hermione is a mere doll. Y^ou don’t discern her sweet- 
ness, nor see how she is always loving and learning, and yet, though 
you don’t know it, she is superior to all of us but Tante here. Full 
of unwritten poetry, with the unsunned soul of a— um — ah — Schu- 
mann in her, yet she can put herself aside, and even be your dis- 
ciple, yours; and Saffo’s and ’Bella’s, if they would. I have my* 
8clf heard even May suggest to her that she should learn Latin, pre* 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


273 


scribing it as a kind of strengthening medicine for the soul. Yet 
%ve might all learn much oflier; you, Linda, nriost of all. Her 
husband may safely rejoice in her. She tends the sweet things that 
she gathers about her for his jo 3 % keeping an eye on her orderly 
household, and, putting aside all thought of weary, lonely hours, 
she looks lovely as she daily welcomes him with smiles, bringing a 
color-feast to ease his eyes, that have rested ou dim things, .or on 
snow coldness all the day. 1 liked her from the first, 1 admire and 
lov'e her now.” 

Linda stared. It was seldom her uncle broke out. But he had 
thought much and long on his own wife’s perfections, and it pleased 
him to see this young girl, his new niece, following all the good 
points of her aunt’s example; and he hoped by and by to see her 
take its very best point, and develop her own talents as well as take 
care of the material talents committed to her use. 

“Yes, you may look,” he continued, warmly; “ I say she abne- 
gates herself for this. She perpetually upholds what is beautiful 
before him, in her own exquisite impersonations; but she is learn- 
ing herself, and by and by she will know herself, and she will be 
in as great a measure as he a producer of beauty. Let us take care 
that she does not produce a beauty of pain, that she is no broken- 
spirited Keats who writes and sings, no Sappho dying of a hope- 
less love, a lost love — that with all our wish to do good to our 
brother men, to lift them into realms of beauty, we do not blight 
her soul who would be the best teacher, for she would teach love as 
well as beauty. Let us who are not poets, who have no insight, 
uphold her who has. Your aunt does this already, having divined 
her first. But she has insight, she is a poet, and has had the mak- 
ing of a poet committed to her help; she is doing it silently, take 
care you do not injure her work. There is truth, digest it, it will 
be as phosphates to your mind.” 

He ended lightly, for he saw his words had burned, and, like the 
tender-hearted surgeon that he was, he wished to heal as well as 
probe the wound. 

Linda was dumfouuded. She no poet— she to be merely a ped- 
estal for Hermione! It was fortunate Uncle Jos did not often 
burst out in appreciation, for, when he did, he raved. He was in 
the habit of raving about his wife, but Linda had hitherto excused 
that as an amiable weakness, and perhaps not so dense a blindness 
as it might have been. But then Tante was Linda’s aunt, and 
shared the genius of the family. Genius of the family! could Her- 
mione then share it? Impossible! Yet Hermione was her own 
relation. Here were problems. 

Mr. Bright went off to vent himself further on his phosphates. 
Cinderella brought him up another dozen of soup-plates. Friol 
also raved. The dining room fireplace was piled up high with out- 
sides of cabbages and potato peelings, all smoldering and smelling 
like weed-burning. The dozen soup-plates were not enough; Mr. 
Bright sent Dick down-stairs for more. 

“ Unless you have any genteel aversion,” he said, seeing Dick 
hesitate to encounter the ire of the bereaved kitchen authorities. 
“ I’ll do it myself if you have.” 

“ Slope/’ .cried Friol, as Dick conveyed the plates, He levied 


274 


.IDPtlAX BRIGHT. 


them to be washed, changed, and, he trusted, forgotten, “ Ahl it 
is my coachmare!” He alluded to the phosphate factory up in the 
study. 

Cinderella was down stairs consulting Rosetta about dinner. 
Flitters was with her. Rosetta told how Friol w^as angry with her 
for having been weak enough to give up the kitchen property. 

“ He is ver’ cross against me,” she explained to Flitters. 
Cinderella, absorbed in her tragedy, had forgotten till now that 
there was only the nucleus of a dinner, the underlying skeleton of 
a meal; it had to be draped and colored. Saffo, of course, forgot 
it every day. So ’Rella had to plan it now, and she meant to order 
green-grocery and other ” trimmings ” as she walked out with Flit- 
ters toward her home. Friol now came to the council. 

” Let me see you order dinner,” said Flitters. ” I do so like to 
learn. I am in such a rudimentary state. I can use the toasting- 
fork, but all I know besides is the recipe for Irish stew. ‘ For 
stock take the broth of a boy,’ etc, 1 learned it of my first partner 
at a dance, a dandy young man who smelt of Irish stew. Years after- 
ward he married, and the bride smelt of Irish stew too.” 

‘‘ Ah, he was a bigginer ” (beginner), ” Mees Flits,” said Friol. 
It was stchew in a poetical shense. ” 

He showed Flitters his armory and hatteTj de cuisine. 

‘‘ Now I am ready, Daisy,” said 'Rella. ” I had to explain to 
Itosetta about the pheasants, that we are to eat the hen first. I could 
not think of the German for hen-pheasant, and at last I found it- 
der Herr and das Weibchen, w^ee wifie, you know. We are to eat 
the weibchen. Then she did not know which was the weibchen, so 
1 had to go to the larder and guess. What more do we want 
h riol ? she asked, after the day’s dinners for fifteen or more hungry 
people had been considered. Luckily they did not all dine late the 
weibchen would not have gone far. ' 

‘‘ Let me slunk. I ahink dattledo. I shink dat’s all.” 

” I shink that’severy shink,” whispered Flitters to ’Rella as tbev 
went up-stairs. ’ 

” Don’t forget to let papa have his plates,” called back ’Rella. 

On their way to look for Saffo, who was going with them Mr. 
Hright called them in to see his transcendent cinders. 

” I mipt have those plates,” said he, ringing the bell, after vainly 
rummaging about for them, * ^ 

Friol came up reluctantly — without the plates — and writhing as if 
with bodily pain He often found it pay him to interest his master 
on a professional point. 

‘‘ I have make my spin, sare doctor.” 

Hurt his spine, he meant. 

some olive oil, and mix some of this with it.” 

Mr. Bright handed out a bottle of grayish powder, similar Flit- 

dlftelenrl th.'f” «l''® T'!®* there were shades of 

diffeience that she had no more mastered than he had done the 

difference between a sonata and a classical fantasia; both of wiiicli 
he thought, consisted of a fortuitous conjunciion of notes, in divers 
the^piimcT^'^^*^^^^^ rolled together inexplicably, and sent flying over 

The girls were waiting impatiently for Saffo, always the last to b^ 


ABRIAK BRIGHT. 


m 

ready, as Flitters had to he at home by a certain hour because of an 
appointment with Herr Grollcuicht. As they left the house they 
saw that Friol brought up a careful selection of ill-matched plates, 
and heard him saying: 

“ 1 have come to blow you up, to apologize to you, sare.” 

“ It is the same with me,” said Saffo, who came to them breath- 
less. “ I must blow^ you up or apologize to you, for it seems to be 
the same thing. But I have been sketching out such glorious 
plans.” She finished dressing herself asthey walked on, giving the 
girls her gloves, necktie, and bag of papers to hold while she tied 
her bonnet. ” ’Bella, it would be glorious for you and I to take in 
a girl or two at a lime, a few utterly useless, ignorant souls, and 
teach them to live, to arrange a house, to make dresses, to cook, to 
manage a party, to mix paint, and other useful and necessary things. 
To rnake girls useful who have no chance of being so in the present 
scheme of society.” 

“ It would be better to take a cleverer class of girl — to work on 
better material,” observed ’Bella, who always believed implicitly in 
Saffo, and only suggested amendments to her plans. 

” No, they will develop themselves, the energetic ones have a 
chance. To do real good. I would take an idiot or two, like Blanche 
Smith or Miss Grubb, and make them of some little use in the 
world.” 

“Must we take the train, Daisy?” asked ’Bella, as they neared 
Baker Street Station. 

“ No, wm are in very good time. The professor is often late.” 

“ Then we will walk on, and 1 can reveal my views,” said Batfo. 
“ Besides, all walks are an object-lesson; we may learn something 
to-day.” 

“ Here is an object,” said Flitters, as a dog waddled past them, 
with his chest preserver in crimson silk worked in a School- of-Art 
pattern. A dog with his tail combed and curled like a feather, and 
a well-fitting peacock-green jacket. 

“ Let us find out the best dog’s tailor in London.” 

“ 1 hate to see dogs overdressed when our street children are left 
so brown and hideous,” said Saffo. “ I contrast their ugliness with 
those lovely little singing boys of Donatello, with tbeir drapery so 
sweetl}^ simple; just, as you may say, a couple of dusters fastened 
on their shoulders, of some woollen stuff, perhaps. When they 
have nothing else to do with their hands, they sometimes take a bit 
of drapery and draw it round them. It falls in loveliest folds (our. 
horrid boys stand with their hands in their pockets). Suppose the 
drapery striped or in delicious colors. Why, it would make an 
artist stop in the street!” Bhe broke off, overcome by a climax like 
this. The vision conjured up was too much. 

Presently she took up the theme of drapery again, holding it as 
important as does Teufelsdibckh. 

“An Indian prince w'alked up our street yesterday, wearing a 
white close-fitting dress wmrked with borderings of gold and crim- 
son, in dainty, delicate pattern. A pale blue mantle fell from his 
right shoulder across the w^aist to wdthin an inch of the ground, at 
its longest part. . . This was embroidered in a small-rayed pattern at 
the edge. It was a perfect costume for line and fold, for color and 


ADKIAK BPilGTTT. 


276 

grace. For ease in daily life, with Iiealtli and activity, it was as 
good as the Greek. The veiy street boys looked after him and were 
mute.” 

” It was doubtless with admiration,” said Little Flitters. 

‘‘ How do you know he was a prince?” asked Cinderella. 

“ He was a prince, of course. It stands to reason he was a prince. 
He looked like one.” 

“ The best of titles,” said Flitters, “ one of nature’s nobility.” 

” Perhaps he was a painter’s model,” ventured Cinderella. No- 
body said ” hear, hear!” 

” Color should be of graceful form,” said Saffo. ” Flowers teach 
us this.” 

” Our people have such a sad aspect nowadays,” said ’Rella, as 
sagely as if she were of the age of Queen Anne. ” A crowd looks 
like no gay parterre; it blackens the spot as an assemblage of flies 
or beetles would do.” 

” Color in draper5^ like that of Circe, should flow from the shoul- 
der,” said Saffo, still thinking of her Indian prince. ” That blue 
dress coming across the road now is an oblong dab of color on the 
scene, cut off straight by the black jacket.” 

'• 1 thought you always advocated rational dress,” said Flitters, 
slyly. 

“ I certainly do advocate rational dress,” said Salfo, startled. 

” 1 mean hideous, angular, strong-minded apparel; mannish attire 
billycocks and ulsters; and, oh, ye demigods! the divided skirt!” 

” I call that mad, not rational, dress.” 

“To dress beautifully one must have a carriage to carry one’s 
elegance in,” said Flitters. (” iMy Indian prince walked,” thought 
SafFo.) ” If the dress is too strikingly hwely, it will be admired to 
inconvenience by the masses, who are not yet educated up to it. 
Therefore, the first thing to do is to grow rich enough to keep a gig; 
beauty will then follow, of course.” 

” No,” cried Saffo, eagerly, ” no one should wish to be rich; and 
if people thought it carefully all round, as I have done, and selfishly, 
as 1 wmuder they do not do, they never would try to be rich. One 
may from a sense of duty accept the burden of wealth, as many are 
willing to take the trouble to govern a country for nothing. But 
to try to be rich is the act of a fool, or of a mean soul that wants to 
get all the luxuries of life for himself, regardless that wdiat he gets 
some one else mostly goes without, while he makes himself filthy 
with lucre-grasping.” 

‘‘Iliad rather be like my father,” said ’Bella, fired by Saffo's 
w^armth. ” He is never able to commit a meanness. Many cheat 
him, and play tricks upon his kindness, while he would never force 
another to pay him even his clue.” 

‘‘ Yes,” said Saffo, firmly, ” I had rather have papa’s high sense 
of honor, and pay a good yearly ta.x for it as he does, than be with- 
out it. Though it is an expensive luxuiy.” 

” Next you’ll tell me that you’d rather live in a back attic than in 
a lovely house like Sir Gilbert Amedroz’s,” said Flitters, w’ho knew 
what poverty really w^as. 

” I liad rather live there,'’ they passed a little house struggling to 
be a cottage ornk, ” than be unable to be proud, as Sir Gilbert fairly 


ABRTAK BRIGHT. 


m 

may be, of the way 1 come by my limise. I had rather live in this 
hovel, which, if it weren’t for the glade of grass, and the bit of dis- 
tant view, would be horrible.” 

” Fancy speaking of a house in that W'ay,” thought Flitters. 

“ Some women marry for the sake of getting a house,” said 
’Rella. 

” I know that womanhood has sometimes been debased,” admit- 
ted Saffo. 

Two children disappeared behind the gateposts of the cottage 
ornee, and tried to make themselves invisible. They were Bobby 
and Augusta. 

” What are our children hovering round here for?” wondered 
Cinderella, conscious that, where Bobby was, mischief was sure to 
lurk. 

They “ spoke ” the children, who explained that they had come 
out for a little fresh air. They wore an air of such extreme inno- 
cence that ’Rella remarked it. She warned them to make haste 
home. 

They had now reached Flitters’s domicile. The Herr Professor 
had not yet come, but Mr. Fairfax— who often called to see Walter 
Carron, the young engraver, so he said — sprang out upon them 
from what seemed an ambush. He had something in his pocket, 
on which he very much wished to have the opinion of Miss Flitters 
— and her friends. 

” We are too many for Mr. Carron’s room,” said Flitters. ” If 
you don’t mind moving up in the soprano passages of the house, 
where 1 live, we can hear all about it. My room will be crammed,” 
she thought. ” Never mind, I may as well be hanged for a whole 
sheep as a lamb.” 

The philosopher was charmed. He had gained his point. He 
was allowed the privilege of a visitor to Daisy Flitters. He trusted 
to luck for having in his pocket something that he could make ap- 
pear worth talking about. Belter luck still, if there were nothing, 
as he could make it an excuse or calling again with what he had 
forgotten. However, he fished out from among his collection of 
curiosities the early paragraphs of a treatise on the amelioration of 
the condition of the laboring classes, and began to work it out, viva 
voce, while Cinderella looked out of the window for the arrival of 
Herr Grollenicht. 

” Is that the professor?” asked Cinderella, pointing to somebody 
prowling round the house. 

” Is he big, with a huge red beard?” said Flitters, who hail gone 
to her little cupboard to take out sherry and her two wine glasses. 

” He has red hair, and he is fat, but not what you would call very 
big.” 

” No, he is not the professor,” said Flitters, coming to look. ” I 
don t know that man from Tom Hobbs, the gooseberry grinder. 1 
wonder why he is staring up at the window. Will you take a glass 
of wine, Mr. Fairfax?” 

He acceded willinaly, and, though usually choice in his wines, he 
appeared to enjoy this glass of Daisy Flitters’s choosing. 

It was a wine as much open to criticism as those rare and curious 
vintages that Mr. Bright judged so severely by their circulars. Mr, 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


278 

Bright, though so abstemious as to be almost a teetotaler— although 
uot of the sort that would drink thirteen cups of tea at a temperance 
meeting — was, nevertheless, a judge of wine. Of Fliltera’s best 
Amontillado he would have said, “ It is a made-up wine, a negus 
of Marsala, flavored with brandy-and water.” Flitters herself sus- 
pected it had never paid any duty. She only kept the stock in her 
cellar cupboard because it seemed a favorite wine of Herr Grolle- 
n'cht’s at such times as he gave her a lesson in her own rooms. In 
fact, he took a glass for politeness’ sake, as he deemed it a custom 
of the country. 

‘‘There are several men now, looking up at this house,” said 
Oinderella, still at the window. ‘‘ There, one of them has rung the 
b.'ll.” 

It was a visitor for Miss Fraser. He did not stay long. Pres- 
ently, another of the group rang, and knocked a double-knock, and 
a-ked for Miss Fraser. He still more speedily departed. A third 
ring at the bell, and a loud knock. This was the Berlin professor, 

( xpostulating with some one who was bent on making inquiries, 
lie mounted the stairs to Flitters’s room, and, meanwhile, the street- 
door was besieged by various applicants, each one of whom seemed 
io excite more and greater ire in the person who opened the door 
than the last. The two concluding rings were unattended to. All 
of these proceedings excited deep curiosity in Cinderella, but no 
one else took much interest in them. 

While the professor was busied with Flitters’s closely written 
pages of counterpoint, moistened with the accustomed sherry, Mr. 
Fairfax opened his heart and his rough note book to Safl'o, and dis- 
cussed with her the preface of his great work on ‘‘ Culture,” con- 
taining his views on what he called ‘‘ I'he educational fraction, or, 
books the least part of education.” 

” It is only their idleness of thought that makes men take so lit- 
tle interest in the matter,” said the philosopher. 

Cinderella wondered that they all took so little interest in the by- 
play that seemed so curious to her, as the retiring group of men dis- 
persed, still staring angrily or intently up at that house. One of 
them, seeing her at the window, actually kissed his hand to her. It 
seemed unlikely that six or eight lunatics should all be out rambling 
together, and allowed to straggle off in different directions. Cin- 
derella could not, under the circumstances, improve her mind with 
the philosopher’s talk, though Saffo went deep into it. 

‘‘ Love is goodness set in motion,” said she, in reply to his last 
proposition. ” Nothing can be put in motion without a first strong 
effort, and the science of love, like other sciences, must be applied 
in order to make it really useful.” 

‘‘ I have heard of the Art of Love, but never heard it called a sci- 
ence before,” said Flitters, turning round. Her ear had been 
caught by the word. 

‘‘It is a science, nevertheless,” said Saffo, “and needs exhaust- 
ive study.” 

‘‘ Ton recommended making the poor man’s home liappy,” de- 
murred Saffo to something he had said ten minutes or so before. 
” Don’t you think it would add more to his happiness if we made 


ADRIAK BRIGHT. 


279 

the place of his work pleasanter, so as to make him enjoy his work, 
instead of only enjoying his rest?” 

She had hit the bull’s eye of social science without knowing it. 

‘‘Miss Zaifo is right,” said the German, looking up. ” JMiss 
Vlitters abblies the brinzible. Here she makes me gomfortable and 
subblies amusement as well.” 

The counterpoint lesson was pushed aside for the moment, as 
they all threw themselves into talk; filling that little crowded room 
with voices. 

” All the misery of onr work is owing to its narrowness, its 
abominable subdivision,” said the philosopher, distinctively so- 
called, as we say noblemen, distinctively ; or give men any other 
artificial values. ” We profess to abhor narrow ideas, and yet we 
do all we can to narrow the groove of every artisan and every serv- 
ant.” 

Saffo grew fiery. 

“Yes,” broke in Flitters, eagerly. “Look at the man-cook in 
the grill-room of the South Kensington Museum. Chops are his 
life. Bis only variety is a steak cooked in precisely the same man- 
ner. Every person he sees he looks upon as a chop. Does a great 
artist or author believe he is regarded ollierwise? • He deceives him- 
self. In the eyes of that man he is a chop. All excellence is smelt- 
ed in the crucible, his gridiron. Varieties: Masculine, chop; femi- 
nine, tender steak, because there :s most for the money, and no 
bone.” 

“ What would you have him do? Roam about the museum and 
improve his mind. Eh?” asked Mr. Fairfax. The German was 
not ready enough with his English for talk with Flitters and Saffo 
both. Saffo viewed both the men as proselytes, captives to her net. 
She was mistaken. They were Flitters’s captives, both of them. It 
was hardly fair— but mankind is so unjust. 

“ I don’t see any escape for him; as no one would chop and change 
with him,” said Flitters. 

“ Then you think they are the Brompton boilers still,” said Mr. 
Fairfax, “ to boil every student down to a jelly and turn him out in 
a mold.” • 

“ Labeled ‘ Artist. With care. Fragile. This side up,’ ” said 
Flitters, laughing. 

Cinderella meanwhile was troubled with knottier problems. She 
was used to this. ’Bella had the cares of a large family on her little 
shoulders, and a five-act tragedy on her hands besides. Saffo, occu- 
pied with the affairs of the wider wmrld, could not be expected to 
shorten the line of her vision. The girls were as microscope and 
telescope in regard to domestic matters. 

Cinderella had caught sight of her young brother Bobby in talk 
with one of the men w ho had knocked at the door. He had ad- 
dressed several of them in succession, but, meeting the eyes of his 
sister, looking intently out of the window^ he had slunk away. 

“ Where Bobby is, is sure to be mischief,” again reflected ’Rella, 
and she called upon Saffo to go home. But Saffo w^as listening to 
Flitters. 

“• In fine, to bring all this back to our original topic, what is cult- 
ure?” asked Flitters, in mock heroic manner. ” I pause for a reply 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


280 

—no answer? I am pausing away the precious time. Will nobody 
address this meeting? Then I must sum up. Ahem! This, then, 
is culture— The Miss Barkers go to De Pachmann's, and other 
classical musical recitals. They put their lunch in their pocket, 
and make a day of it. Hecital begins at d. I'hey are at St. James’s 
Hall at 11.30, to try for the luxury of the top s.iat on the stairs, 
wailing for the doors to open. The stairs are already full. They 
squeeze in on the lowest stair, and take out each a doyley with a 
lyre, a swan, or some other musical emblem, to work on it in 
crewels while they wait. They eat their sandwiches, discuss the 
new opera with their neighbor on the next stair, make acquaintance 
with kindred spirits, and altogether enjoy themselves quite as much 
as on the stairs at a party. They ^t a fair place in the concert- 
room, and enjoy an appetite for De Pachmann’s music, after earn- 
ing it. They hug themselves that they are not as other weak souls, 
wdio came at 1 p.m. hoping to get in.” 

” Dish is modern guldure; de worship of de muses,” said Grol- 
lenicht, choking. 

‘‘ We cultivate flowers in the same way,” pursued Flitters. ” On 
a horrid, torrid day, one goes to the Botanical Gardens, at 2 p.m. in 
order to get a chair, to ease the feet pinched in tight best boots. If 
you move off to see the flowers, you lose your chair. So you throw 
over the flowers, and take life easy until you move slowly out of 
the gardens to ‘ God save the Queen ’ at seven o’clock, and struggle 
for a cab.” 

” This is culture in its pleasantest form,” said Saffo, laughing. 

‘‘ And do you advogate guldure. Miss Zaffo?” asked the con- 
vulsed professor. But Cinderella insisted upon Saffo going liome 
with her, and leaving Flitters to finish giving or taking her lesson. 

This seemed to Flitteis like a broad hint to Mr. Fairfax to accom- 
pany them home, but nobody else saw it, and ’Bella was innocent 
of any such meaning. When the girls left, Flitters was obliged to 
dismiss the philosopher point-blank, that she might get to her work 
with the professor. When they were both gone, she went dowm- 
stairs to see Mr. Carron in the evening dusk, and have her usual 
friendly chat with him. This was a work of charity, though she 
never loolled on it as such. It was a kindly visitation of the sick. 

” 1 was glad my sherry held out so w^ell ” — she w’as talking of her 
afternoon-party up-stairs. ” It is a sort of composite sherry. There 
was some left that had been in the decanter over a month, and I 
sent to the ‘ Victoria,’ and got a nice fresh bottle for one-and four, 
and clapped them both in together.” 

When they reached home, Cinderella at once sought Bobby, to 
find out what be had gathered from his talk wdth the mysterious 
strangers she had seen collected round Flitters’s lodgings, and to 
learn why they had asked for Linda Fraser. . Bobby exploded in a 
shout of laughter. 

” Oh! ’Bella, such awful fun! Promise you won’t tell, and you 
shall hear all about it.” 

‘‘ 1 won’t tell, unless it is anything that ought be told to mam- 
ma.” 

” 1 sha’n’t tell for that much. 1 must have a promise and vow,’* 
“ Ko, I cannot promise and vow: but do tell me,” 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 281 

“ Such fnn, ’Rella. It will do for your Iragedy. Come, prom- 
ise, and then j’ou shall liear it.” 

” Out with It, Bobby.” 

” ^ou have promised, you know.” Bobby was dying to tell. 

The mystery came out. Robert le Diable had made Augusta 
help him to answer six letters in the Matrimonial News, from six 
men wanting wives, and he liad directed all the men to be at the 
corner of the road near Linda Fraser’s and Flilters’s house at a cer- 
tain hour, that Linda might view them from tlie window, (This 
accounted for the languishing attitudes that hud so roused ’Rella’s 
curiosity.) They were then to knock at the door and inquire for L. 
F., the lady who lived on the ground floor, and who was a liand- 
some, single lady of fortune on the lookout for a suitable partner. 
Bobby had had tremendous sport that afternoon in watcfiing the 
countenances of the disappointed suitors as they were each one more 
ignominiously expelled than the last. Thej" were all disgusted when 
the big German w’ent in, and stayed. They thought he was tlie 
favored applicant for the place in the lady’s favor. 

All Bobby^ wanted more was to hear what Linda herself thought 
of the ” lark,” and ” to see her in a tearing rage,” as he expressed 
it. 

” 1 had a great mind to send one or two of them to Daisy, be- 
cause she smacked me at my music-lesson — when I talked about 
music and philosophy like Mr. Fairfax, But Daisy is a decent lit- 
tle article, and Iliad rather bother Linda of the two. It is such a 
ioke, after Daisy has bullied Augusta a good deal over her music- 
lesson, to hear her come out with ‘ Now take care, or I shall be 
angry with you in a minute,’ But she never whops Augusta, only 
me, I do just catch it sometimes.” 

What was Cinderella to do? 

” Oh! I must tell mamma?” 

‘‘ You promised, you know, ’Rella,” said he, threateningly. 

‘‘ No, Bobby, 1 never promised,” Nor had she; yet she felt her- 
self as much bound by the implied promise as if slie had made it in 
words. Mr. Bright’s high sense of honor pervaded the family, and 
Cinderella’s tragic heroes were very Bayards in honorable feeling. 
Yet it was a dreadful responsibility. 

“Oh! I must tell— do let me tell. Oh! Bobby, it was such a 
frightfully naughty thing to do.” 

Cinderella was absolutely sick with terror as to what might come 
of this: whether Bobby had, or had not, subjected himself to penal- 
ties of stripes and imprisonment, and exposed Linda to all imagina- 
ble insult. She went to bed ill with fright, and torn by conflicting 
codes of ethics. 

Bobby, in his alarm about ’Bella’s illness, told Augusta to confess 
all, but— stupid boy that he was— not to his mother, who would 
have huslied it up, but in a letter to Linda. 

” Tell her 1 make an apology to her for the inconvenience, and 
put it neatly, mind you, Gussie, or I’ll give it to you hot.” Augusta 
ruled her lines, spelled with elaborate care the word “opollogy,” 
and Bobby posted the letter. 

Linda was, of course, extremely angry, and, though Mrs. Bright 
wrote to ask her children’s pardon for their mischievous trick. 


ADRIAK BRTOHT. 


283 

slie remained ungracious and exceedingly offended, and refused to 
see her uncle when he called to inquire if there were any reparation 
in their power to make. That she had reason to he angry they all 
admitted, and the admission of their wrongs toward Linda made 
them the more inclined to be indulgent toward her. Adrian was the 
only one of the lamily with whom she was friendly for some con- 
siderable time afterward. 

She called at his studio to ask his advice about her drawings, 
without entering the house other than to pass through the hall, and 
she asked him often to come and assist her wdtli her work at the 
museum. So that Hermione daily saw less and less of her husband. 

Linda was also at work on a portrait of herself. 

“ To be marked as ‘ Innocence,’ or ‘ Maidenhood,’ in the Acad- 
emy catalogue, 1 suppose,” said Flitters, sarcastically. 

” No, it is for her autograph portrait in the Ufflzi,” said Saffo. 

” You know that picture in the museum,” cried the impenitent 
Bobby, ” the picture of a woman. It’s a hideous picture; it looks 
exactly like Linda. That is just how i should like to paint her 
portrait for the Academy. If 1 could paint badly enough.” 

But Saffo — vice ’Bella, invalided — had to go off to see to Amala- 
sontha’s departure. 

She was loo tearful, had too much feeling, to be useful. This 
handmaid, called Niobe by Adrian Bright, was really named Ama- 
lia Elizabeth, or Amalia Setha, as she shortened it. Saffo had rushed 
to Amalasontha as more purely Gothic. 

This matter arranged, Suffo carried up some soup of her own prep- 
aration to Cinderella, so fat that May, who was nursing her ten- 
derly, called it ” gravy embonpoint.” ’ 


CHAPTER XL. 

“ On ne inontre pas sa grandeur pour etre en une extr6mit6, mats bien en 
touchant les deux la fois et remplissant tout I’entre-deux.”— Pascal. 

Linda Fraser was deeply offended. She went home and arranged 
her dinner-party by herself, leaving out the Brights, every one of 
them. 

Besides Mr. Bright’s lecture and Bobby’s abominable behavior, 
Linda had other causes of vexation and disquiet. Her picture, 
which she had intended for the Academy in the spring, w\as now 
actually rejected by the committee of the autumn exhibition which 
she thought she honored by sending it there. The picture was 
completed earlier than she expected, and she hoped to finish another 
in lime for the Academy exhibition. She was stung and astonished, 
unaft'ectedly so. 

Hitherto she had laughed when disappointed artists talked of the 
academic jealousy Avhich excluded their works. She ahva3^s till 
now had said: 

” If a picture is w^ell painted and powrerfully imagined, it will 
make its way; the Academy is glad to receive such pictures. It is 
nonsense to chatter of cabals.” 

But now, conscious of having fulfilled the requisite condition of 
well carrying-out a powerful conception, she thought there must be 


ADKIAK BRIGHT, 


283 


somethins: in that current taUj of jealousy. There must be truth 
mixed with what everybody says. Or perhaps this was an excep- 
tional case, in which the grand simplicity of her style too effect- 
ually concealed its art; or perhaps it was the narrow-mindedness of 
a clique, which, purblind themselves, would not let the public, tliat 
grand jury of the realm, have the opportunity of judging of her 
merits. Anyway, Linda felt herself suppressed, and the world 
against her. 

And now she has her future to think of. Adrian is married; that, 
bitter as it is, is an accomplished fact, which, without poison, can- 
not be undone. Even mental poison would fail. And there were 
so few forms of mental poison she could apply. For anything to 
happen that would give her a chance of altering the legal condition 
of the parties, there was not the remotest possibility. Hermione 
was too virtuous, too good. And, though Linda could calculate 
the probable length of Elermione’s life with the coolness of a life- 
assurance table, she felt convinced that a broken heart was the only 
means of causing her death, and this would never happen so Iona: 
as Adrian loved her. 

That was her sin against Linda — being the beloved of Adrian. 
She hated Hermione as Juno detested her rivals: and now to have 
her placed, even in the contemptible opinion of Uncle Jos, in a po- 
sition of superiority, intellectual superiority, to herself, added fuel 
to her hatj'ed, and Linda could have killed her. But in these days 
ladies do not sla}’’ each other, at least, not often. There is no eti- 
quette of killing, only of wounding. 

Hypothesis apart, Linda must recognize as a fact that she has 
lost Adrian, and with him all the joy and sweetness of life. 

“ He is gone from me forever,” she said, with an inward moan. 
“It is done, and our destinies are fixed. I should have been a 
different woman had 1 married him. Now the good angel of my life 
has departed. I will henceforth care only for myself.” 

And now, placing love and joy beside the question, it was time 
to take measures for the future. She must gain wealth and power, 
or fame, somehow, as she has failed, and may fail again, to con- 
quer them for herself. That weary and unprofitable entanglement 
in Yorkshire might be looked upon as practically annulled as an 
engagement; in fact, it was too romantic a folly ever to be viewed 
in the light of a transaction; it was rather a dreamy episode in an 
imaginative life, than a fact. It may be put aside while making 
serious calculations. George Baby is far off and not likely to pur- 
sue her, unless she recalls him; when, of course, Linda thinks, he 
would fly to respond to her call— and perhaps she does not over- rate 
her power, so long as she remains only three-aud-twenty. But, as 
Linda reflected upon “those unstirred and smoldering fires” — 
for in such wise she alluded to people existing in the country —she 
felt she could not live among them; could not thus doom herself to 
a monastic seclusion. She had few bucolic proclivities; no Arca- 
dian dreams. She knew a little about country-life from experience 
of visits paid to friends in the midland counties at different times in 
her life, and she had always found those visits dreary. 

“ It is all very well to love your neighbor,” she would cynically 
remark, “but, when you have to pretend to love other people’s 


ADRIAN BRIGHT, 


284 

neighbors, it is another affair. 1 wish they would offend all their 
neighbors before I go down to the country. 1 hate their twaddling 
tea-parties, which they make such a fuss about, and which are not 
worth dressinir for. t hate their photograph books, and the round 
games they set down to, and their groaning supper-tables, and that 
horrible infliction called spending the day with a friend! 1 loath 
the country.” Decidedly Linda Fraser was not an amiable person. 

This too, is beside the question. Why can she not chain her 
thoughts resolutely to what is before her. Prothero- Wilson is eager 
to be hers; Lord Palairet, too, admires her. Both are rich. It is 
foi her to weigh the merits and disadvantages of both. This ofHce 
of electoral critic suits her well, soothes her pride. She sits down, 
and writes invitations for a small dinner-party, a lady’s party, taste- 
ful. recherche, intellectual. As she thinks of Prothero- Wilson, she 
doubts of the last. Well, she can supply the intellect as easily as 
she can supply the dinner. 'Would that everything were as easy and 
as secure. 

She had meant to have had a chaperon in Mrs. Bright, but that 
is not to be thought of now. She will have no chaperon; she can 
trust to herself for entertaining her admirers. Some woman per- 
haps, in the shape of a foil, she may invite— but not Saffo, not 
Hermione— for she cannot, even for her own pleasure, invite Ad- 
rian. Well-a-day! she must learn to forego that class of delight in 
her future career. She must forego genius, sparkle, originality; or 
supply them all herseif. She must accept position and a merely 
critical mind with Lord Palairet; or six thousand a year, and car- 
riages, and saddle-horses, and cramped views, with Prothero- Wil- 
son, She felt the first was preferable. 

She wro'e her notes, and received her answers, then gave her 
directions to the confectioner and the landlady about her dinner- 
party, and complacently left them to carry out her instructions. 

The confectioner had the charge of the ice, the entrees, and the 
finer kinds of sweets; but Mrs. Jonas had the greater burden of the 
soups and fish, the roasts, the puddings, and the jelly, with the re- 
sponsibility of hiring such plate, table-linen, etc., as might be addi- 
tionally required. 

” Deary, deary me. Miss Flitters,” sighed the afflicted landlady, 
agitated by a business such as no lodger had ever imposed upon 
her before. 

She was used to supper- parties; she could carry off teas with a 
high hand, and luncheons in the genteel or solid style; and a supe- 
rior Christmas dinner she could undertake to furniih at short no- 
tice. But there was a something about this dinner-party of Miss 
Fraser’s that taxed her powers to the uttermost — a certain aroma 
of the higher classes, an indefinable something. It was to be as 
good as Gunter in miniature; a sort of essence of Francatelli (in the 
original quarto edition) had to pervade the whole of it. It was to 
be quiet, ladylike, moderate in price, and yet fit for lords and men 
with six thousand a year, and to look like an everyday thing at the 
same time. There must be no fuss, no effort, no red faces. 

Daisy Flitters could only sympathize. Her knowledge of cookery 
was equal to the great occasion of a veal cutlet, and she could toast 
bacon to perfection. 


AUlUAK BRIGHT. 


285 

But what’s the good of that for a swell dinner?” she asked of 
her guardian angel, probably as no one else was near. ” One may 
as well play the scale of C major at a musical party.” 

Little Flitters was practicing when her landlady entered in search 
of sympath}’’ and friendly counsel. She had Ice rned the mechanic- 
al exercise of a new and prodigious piece of Lisst’s to perfection, 
and she was now busy putting in the expression; a thing which she 
laid on lik(i an after-thought, or a sort of varnish. This habit of 
hers of rubbing in the sentiment, as she phrased it, amused Hermi- 
one immensely the first time she heard it; but when Flitters played 
through to her the same piece of music twice, once without, and 
then with the polish, liermione understood the importance of the 
process, which at first amazed her as much as the sight of the lay 
figures, the bottled moonlight, and Jessica’s trousers had done at 
Mr. Fripps’s studio. 

The finger-perfect Flitters stopped in the passage she was modeling 
up, from a mezzo- piano con dolore condition in the top line of a cer- 
tain jmge, through a tenerezza dolcissimamente of six bars, to a mar- 
lellato con furia five lines on, in a whirl of arpeggios, and octaves 
(sempre accelerando) expressive of everything that was orchestral. 
One, two, a lot of fireworks finished in strict time at three, sundry 
dotted semiquaver rests, and bang, bang, bang, to four, five and six, 
concluded this fine passage. Flitters was hot and wiped her face, 
but was ready to go at it again, when Mrs. Jonas came in with an 
expression in her voice and face tliat had come there impromptu, as 
it were, without any previous understanding with a composer. 

‘‘ I’m dreadfully trouiJed about the jelly, Miss Flitters. The 
bottled stuff is too firm and looks common; and you know the softer 
jellies look more home-made and more calves’-footificd.” 

” Mix more water wdth the bottled jelly,” suggested Flitters, ” it 
will make it less stiff, more delicate in flavor, and make it go fur- 
ther too.” 

” What a wise, sensible young woman little Miss Flitters is,” 
thought the landlad3^ She liked her half-furnished second-floor 
lodger better than the expensive young lady in the best parlors. 
Linda only gave orders, never help; while Flitters would at any 
lime come dowm stairs and help about, or sit with her feet comfort- 
ably on the fender, and stir a pot, pleasantly talking all the while. 
She did not know much, it is true, but she could and did whip 
eggs, pound sugar, or grate nutmeg. 

*' What a bad piece of beef this is,” said the landlady, when 
Flitters ran down to lend a hand in this extremity. “ Miss Fraser 
will blame me for trusting the butcher, but I was too busy to go.” 

“ Why didn’t you ask’ me?” said Flitters, ” I was passing. I 
would have told them you must have a fine piece in simple com- 
mon time taken presto.” Mrs. Jonas had her doubts about the 
efticacy of the order; but still lamented over the beef. ” Well, it 
is the cow’s fault, not yours. You can tell Miss Fraser that.” 

“The cow!” exclaimed the horrified Mrs. Jonas. Flitters had 
really supposed an old cow responsible for the beef; and now she 
offered to thump it wdth the rolling-pin to make it tender. 

” How exquisitely you have boiled those Brussel sprouts, Mrs. 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


286 

Jonas; they are as bright "reen as a pleasure boat. 1 have always 
observed that cabbages boil yellow or dove-color, not green.” 

“ Ah, my dear miss, 'we can’t take so mnch pains for everyday. 
Mistakes happen when I leave it to Jemima Kami, and they have to 
take their chance as to color.” 

Linda’s party was at its height. The whole house was absorbed 
in it. Young Carron’s finest liowering plant graced her table, a 
tall campanula pyramidalis, wreathed with the graceful climbing 
fern all about its column-like stem, set wdtli pale blue stars, that be 
had lent her. He was only too proud to spend his treasure, his 
Picciola, in her service. In late autumn, flowers are few, and 
Linda was condescending, and sent up a message of acceptance, and 
Carronwas made happy. 

A knock came to the front-door of the house. No one answered 
it. Everybod.y was too busy to hear it. Litttle Flitters good-nat- 
uredly went down. 

A tall, stout gentleman asked for Miss Fraser. It was late for the 
party, and he was not in evening dress. Flitters stood dubious. 

” Miss Fraser is at home, but she is engaged wdth a party, and 
the people of the house are very busy with it. Does your business 
require immediate attention, or coukl you call to-morrow?” 

‘‘ 1 leave Loudon to-morrow^ for Yorkshire.” 

” Can 1 give a message?” The tall, stout stranger eyed the little 
woman with an approving glance as she looked, oh! such a long 
way up to his face, and seemed so business-like and clever, yet 
good-naturedly sorry for his disappointment. ” Could you let me 
write a note somewhere? 1 don’t mind how late 1 call for her re- 
ply; after her parly will do, if Miss Fraser will see me a minute or 
two. He did not, somehow, look like a suspicious character. But 
what if he turned out to be a burglar in disguise? Of what? In 
disguise of a burglar. Burglars were alwmys dark, big, and mysteri- 
ous. He would double her up to iiDthiug, and Mr. Carron— well, of 
course, he wmuld have no chance. jFle saw her hesitation, and 
smiled, though he did not think his character was in jeopardy. 
She evidently was in difficulty. 

” After all,” she said to herself, with a pretty air of resolution, 
” he may be innocent; he has a right to be thought so until proved 
guilty. There are plenty of men in the house within reach of a 
scream. I can shriek up to 0 sharp in the ledger-lines for help if 
the worst comes to the wmrst.” She was quick at thinking. ” All 
the household spoons are in the dining-room under Ihe protection 
of half a dozen— well — spoons— in swallow-tails. ” Sbe was rapid 
at surmisinc:, too, and read off lovers as easily as burglars; and tlien 
there was the comfortable thought that most of the plate was 
electro, and this stranger certainly could get into none of the coats 
at present in the hall, and her own best dress he was not likely to 
want. 

“ If ^mu will kindly give me 3 ’' 0 ur name,” she said. 

” Torn Esdaile — Mr. Esdaile.” The name conve 3 ^ed to her noth- 
ing beyond the recollection that burglars were always called Tom 
or Jerry. But she led the wa 3 ^ up- stairs, giving an eye to the over- 
coats in the hall, 3 "et reassured by the fact of his not having as yet 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


m 

run off with the whole of tbeni, for she could not have prevented 
it. She knocked at the door of Mr. Carron’s room to ask if he might 
write there. Siie could not take him up-8tairs to her own room, of 
course not, and Linda’s were occupied with the party. 

“ Come in,” said Mr. Carrou, and Flitters explained the story. A 
friend of Miss Fraser’s. Of course Carron was only too glad to do 
anything for a friend of Miss Fraser. He was eating his dinner, 
a chop cooked by Flitters’s own fair hands. She had broiled it 
for herself, when suddenly she remembered the landlady had but 
one servant, and she intensely stupid, and all their energies 
were taxed for Linda’s party. ]\lr. Carron would come badly 
oft, and he was not one to complain, and also not strong enough 
to go without his dinner. So Little Flitters ran down to Ids 
room with her own nicely broiled chop, and set him down to eat it 
at his small table without jjermitting a remonstrance; making light 
of what she did, by saying she only wanted to give a handful of 
help to the hard-pressed landlady. 

When she saw him fairly at his meal she ran up-stairs and toasted 
herself a herring, a “soger;” what she called “a penny Welling- 
ton;” and ate it contentedly, as if it had been her regular dinner. 
She had not finished her military repast when the loud knock came 
to the door. 

“ Hum, a fantasia on the knocker, a tintinnabulant symphony 
I suppose next, and the second course just dishing up, I vow.” So 
she flew down, as we know. 

The stout man was writing, or seemed to wu’ite; he was really as 
much absorbed in Flitters’s cliat with Carron. 

“ This party is a great affair for us. I take a breathless interest 
in it; and so do you, for I hear you have lent your beautiful plant 
lor the table. 1 dreamt last night a new servant came for our land- 
lady. She was not an owl, like the present Jemima Rann. She had 
a sylph-like form, and a blue gauze veil elegantly draped round her 
neck, and she made eyes at the cabman and the policeman who lifted 
down her ark. She led us a life afterward. But 1 woke, and it 
was a dream — it was a dream. Unless it is out now,” she whis- 
pered. “Behold the sylph-like form,” indicating the stout pro- 
portions of Ursa Major, “ and I vow he is making eyes at me.” 

It \vas true, he could not take his eyes off her. It was so pretty 
to see her petting this evidently invalid youth. No, he was older 
than he seemed— the fair hair and complexion waxen with illness 
made him look so boyish. He was her brother probably, though 
there was no likeness— Flitters’s wavy hair was dark, and her eyes 
brown and sparkling, and her little cheeks and lips rosy with health. 
What a charming little mite it was, with the bright eyes and slight- 
ly tip-tilted nose, and the active tongue and hands. How merrily 
she talked to amuse the invalid; and how carefully she tended him 
and looked after his little comforts as she poured him out the coffee 
she had made, holding the pot steadily, “ so as not to shake the bee’s 
wing,” as she said. She looked at the stout gentleman doubtfully, 
relentingly, and then poured out a cupful of coffee for him too. 

He really did not look like a burglar, and he seemed to have such 
a hard tussle with the third person, nominative case, in his note. 
He looked like a man who had known trouble in his time with his 


A Dili AX r.llIGHT. 


288 

nominative case. Yes, he should have a cup of nice coffee too. It 
might clear his intellect. 

They got into talk somehow, and Esdaile drew his chair up near 
Carron. Flitters amused them by describing in her lively way how 
the knives and forks for Linda Fraser’s second course were plunged 
into a jug of hot water outside the door, and came into table again 
all warm. 

“ They are of pjTO-silver, you know,” said Flitters, “and the 
maker boasted ‘ he could put ’em on for fish and everything else 
without passing them through the knife cleaner.’ Our landlady 
tests this thoroughly for all of us. Sometimes the warranty fails; 
but we are artists, nol critics.” 

Then Mr. Esdaile went back and struggled with his note again. 
Flitters longed to help him, but of course could not venture to offer. 
At length the note was written, and the stranger (unwillingly) got 
up to go. 

” It is really very good of you to let me interrupt your evening in 
this way, and to lend me your room to wu'ite in.” 

Carron made a suitable reply. His heart spoke more strongly. In 
the service of Miss Fraser, Carron would devote his rooms and the 
best of everything only too gladly. To hear any one talk of Linda 
w^as joy enough for him. He hoped he might hear and learn more 
of Miss Fraser from this stranger. He w'as glad to keep him there 
standing and talking while putting on his overcoat. Little Flitters 
helped "him on with this mighty garment, laughing as she jumped 
on a chair to reach to do it, and scarcely able to lift its fearful 
weight. 

Esdaile, who had just casually mentioned Linda’s engagement to 
his friend Rab}', and was entirely occupied with delightful dalliance 
with his overcoat, had not observed in what silence Walter Carron 
received his news, and Ihe unqualified blame he bestow'ed on Linda. 
He never noticed how the angry fiush w^as succeeded on the, in- 
valid’s hectic cheek by a paleness so ghastly that it looked like death 
itself. 

Flitters saw it as she turned, and sprang from the chair to assist 
him. He was in a dead faint. She made the great Yorkshireman 
lift the poor boy to the sofa, and sent him up-stairs for the sherry in 
her room. 

” In the cupboard in the room just over this, you understand?” 

The giant creaked up stairs and found the decanter of the famous 
blended sherry, curious, stale, and rare. He had time to cast a 
glance round the little, barely-furnished room, the piano, tiie piles 
of music, the tiny gone-out fire, the little table with the slice of bread 
and the remains of the ” penny Wellington” thereon. All this he 
saw, and he understood by it more than the wmrld would have given 
so blundering a giant credit for. His heart went out toward the 
little w’oman, so poor, so blithe, and so kindly-natured. 

Flitters’s ” nutty-flavored” sherry, not being remarkable for 
strength, w^as of little efficacy in restoring young Carron from his 
fainting-fit. Flitters ran down-stairs to get some brandy from the 
landlad}", and returned with a steaming glass of something hot and 
strong that Mr. Jonas had mixed for his own enjoyunent. This was 
much more effectual, and fanning and the open window completed 


AUPvTAN BRIGHT. 


?.89 

his restoration. Esdaile lifted the lame youth into his own room as 
easily as a baby, and stayed with him and helped him as tenderly as 
a nurse. Then he returned to Flitters, 

It was raining heavily when Esdaile left the house, and Flitters 
lent him her umbrella. At first she looked for her second-best 
gamp, or, as others would have called it, her second worst; but it 
was really too perforated for a night like this. Flitters relented and 
offered him the immortal umbrella with the gold plate in the handle; 
a tiny implement, which would about cover the crown of his hat. 
lie looked at it curiously, but took it nevertheless, 

“lie does not look dishonest enough to forget an umbrella. If 
he is — well, 1 shall have lost an umbrella wdiich has seen liner days, 
and one thing besides — my trust in human nature.” 

lie brought it back next morning, on his way to the station, he 
called it. All the world knows that St. .Tolm’s Wood is on the 
direct line from Charing Cross to King’s Cross— when all the rest 
of the streets are up. Flitters was just going out to give a music- 
lesson. Certainly, she looked charming in her bonnet. How fortu- 
nate it was he had arrived iu time to save that pretty bonnet from the 
possibilities of the variable weather. He arrived at King’s Cross 
terminus just in time to dash ticketless into the guard’s van. He 
might as well have sent the umbrella by Parcels Delivery, with a 
neatly turned note, and his compliments. But these big Yorkshire- 
men are always so thick-headed. 

Linda’s party broke up early. Lord Palairet left first. He de- 
clined to talk with Mr. Prothero-Wilson, at least, not more than 
civility required. He knew him; in fact, had had picture dealings 
with him, both being connoiseurs, as Linda remarked. Lord Palairet 
did not feel flattered at being asked to meet a — well, a man in trade. 
It gave him time for reflection, and he thought Miss Fraser’s choice 
of friends not sufiiciently select. 


CHAPTER XLl. 

** Some sorts of education are moral sunshine, others are moral moonshine.” 

Ruskin. 

Why did Hermione not see Saffo wdien she went about to consult 
authorities and gather opinions on the Beautiful? And why w^as not 
Saffo present at the colloquy between Uncle Jos and Linda, to take 
Jlermione’s part against Linda’s disparaging critiqisms, with her 
usual knight errantry on behalf of the weak and beautiful? A 
good deal of knight-errantry is needed nowadays; not because there 
i^s more beauty than of old, but because there is more weakness. 
And Saffo took the part of the weak enthusiastically, clamorously; 
urging upon all the duty of sympathy with her sympathies. “ Love 
me, love my friend, and love my hobby also,” was Saffo’s motto; 
as it was that of the like-nalured Uncle Jos, our Saffo’s own i)apa. 

On both occasions Saffo was at work. At one time she was con- 
sidering the great Dust-pit question, and drawing a picturesque 
elevation of some ideal wash-houses; and at the period of Hermioue’s 
visit she was shut up in her own room, plying the busy pen and ink, 
and drawing up a prospectus for a measure that she foresaw would 


200 


ADRIAN RRrOHT. 


be necessary before sbe befjan to practically improve the condition 
of England, and, incidentally, the condition of its women. 

The Married \Vomen’s Property Act she viewed witli mild appro- 
bation as a first step; kindly, as a nurse might watch a baby’s early 
totterings. But she felt that this was only a half-quaiter measure. 
The principle she upheld was that women should become them- 
selves the value, and not their bit of money. She quoted the Iliad 
(Lord Derby’s translation) freely to show“ that women themselves 
were wealth. But then arose the question — what sort of women? 

Decidedly, the useless ones must be shipped off, and the first step 
must be to persuade them that they are useless; secondly, to coax 
the money for shipping them out of the pockets of the public, the 
generally useful public. The bulk of the cargo being ladies, they 
would ail require first-class passage, of course; and Safifo was con- 
sidering it would be much more showy, and just as cheap, to turn 
the whole of the ship, or ships, into first-class berths, as to make 
use of the ordinaiy “ omnibus ” system. "With so much on her 
mind, what wmnder that Saffo could not be called upon to discuss 
llounces? Hermione ran up to her room just to say “ How d’ye 
do?” and ” G-ood-by.” Saffo at once set the problem before her. 

” Then 1 ought to be shipped off too,” said the poor startled Her- 
mione, ” for 1 am utterly useless.” 

“We do not want to send away our models of beauty,” said 
Saffo, hurriedly. ” But this raises another difficulty, for we must 
not put in our programme that only plain women are to go. Well, 
I must think it out, reason it out, toil it but. We must all work at 
either ruling or obeying. We have all tried to shirk this, and be- 
come unproductive, idle middle-men. This has given us absentee 
landlords, disobedient servants. My line is ruling.” 

” And mine obeying,” said Hermione. Saffo smiled on the fair 
young wife, in a superior, motherly way. ” Good-by,” added 
Hermione. ‘‘I see 1 must not interrupt you. Try if you can 
manage to let me and a few of my friends stay at home.” 

” Home would not be sw'eet home without you, my darling. 
Good-by.” 

Safto’s glance followed Hermione fondly; she then looked at her 
•v\\atch. It was time to dress for the meeting; a AVomeu’s Suffrage 
meeting, which she was going to attend in order that she might 
learn from their own lips what it is that women reall}'^ wmnt. 

She had not taken to platforms as yet, but it wms as Flitters sai:l, 

” The family are ahvays afraid of what Saffo is going to do next. 
She has not done it, but she may.” This sedulous and dazzling 
Saffo, always energetic, always inventive; there was no knowing 
what she niigjit be drawn into at any time. 

Saffo dressed herself carefully incognita, put on her strong- 
minded air, and marched off, armed with her umbrella. On the 
W'ay she met Miss Fraser. 

” Afe you going for a pleasant walk?” 

Fancy anything so weak, thought Saffo. “ No, to a meeting.’' 

” A mother’s meeting? You will be out of place.” 

“ No,” said Saffo, proudly, ” a political meeting.” She stalked 
on. People were going in. She thought it W'as Hengler’s Circus, 
but a bland old gentleman said this was the meeting. She entered, 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


291 


secured a programme and prospectus, and a folding chair in a good 
situation, and prepared to enjoy her rights. She looked round for 
acquaintance, but did not see any one she knew. Somehow she 
felt the few whipper-snapper officials of the sneering sex sneered, 
and she grew somewhat ashamed and angry. “ Euter chairman 
and six chairwomen,” on the high platform. 

Mr. Chairman, M.P., a pretty-faced man, led off with a speech 
which was not altogether what Salio would have come far to hear; 
it contained much of the usual twaddle, and h’m-h’a-ing; but Saffo 
was glad to think it would be bettered by the women, and his argu- 
ments might be strengthened. 

The latlies did not look ugly and ill-dressed enough for a strong- 
minded set. One, indeed, had a capacious forehead, an unfashion- 
able forehead, and she looked attentive to the business on hand, 
and consulted her notes; but another wore a spotted veil, a “ corn- 
plexion-veil,” and one actually had her hair frizzed; and they, and 
the remainder, all abundantly consulted each other. 

This upset Saffo’s ideas. How could specialists wear such 
diversity of aspect? She wanted to learn the needs and aspirations 
of women from their own mouths, and thought from the specialists 
she should gain instruction. She, a reformer, had seized on Mr. 
Fairfar as a fellow-reformer. They both liked to talk with 
specialists; unluckily they were as doctors disagreeing on their 
specialty, and nobody could settle their differences but Daifcy Flit- 
ters, who settled them in a way that did not so entirely satisfy Saffo 
as it did the male philosopher. 

But now Saffo was all attention, though the cause of female- 
suffrage in the abstract did not interest her. 

Miss , of the Loudon School Board, complained in tiute-like 

tones that, considering our representation is of property, not of 
persons, it is unjust that women’s property should uot be repre- 
sented. She w'as logical in style and matter, and rounded each 
paragraph with, 

“ This is another flaw in their argument.” 

Her parts of speeeff were well chosen and appropriately placed, 
and she was not at all abusive; nay, even mild, and a little patron- 
izing, as if she spoke of rough schoolbo.ys who would grow wiser 
in time. She spoke well, admirably, Saffo thought, did she but open 
her mouth wide enough, and she was evidently the female Cicero 
of the cause. She argued that the houses vote, and not the owners; 
and yet, supposing a man dies, his vote dies with Idm; though the 
house may still be inhabited by his widow, or another female, that 
house has no vote. Yet the house is still there, that is, the bricks 
and mortar are still there. 

“ Ay, madam, but the soul is fled,” muttered a middle-aged gen- 
tleman near Saffo. “ Still, her argument is good, and she js sweetly 
interesting and entirely feminine. Fancy her being a blue 1” he con- 
cluded, nearly aloud, and with a prodigious sigh. 

She says women must be represented by a feminine element in 
the constituency, because none can know so well what women want 
as themselves. Saffo redoubled her attention. This was coming 
to the point. 

“ Hone,” says the speaker decisively, ” none can speak for me so 


ADllIAN BRIGHT. 


292 

well as I can for myself.” The audience clap, for she speaks so 
well for herself. Saffo listens anxiously. It really w^as a pity she 
had not stopped there, for the charm would have carried conviction 
with a force worth a hwndrechveight of argument; though, when 
she gets off the track of the programme and into her own special 
linc,’ 5 he growls more airuising, if less logical. ” Why do women 
need representation? Because they need food.” 

“Dear, dear, our argument halts here,” murmured the note-tak- 
ing. middle-aged gentleman, regretfully. “ They will never get so 
high an average of wages as men, because they do not need so much 
food as men. Therefore they need not be as fully represented as 
men.” He w^hispered this to Saffo. 

“ Still they need livelihoods,” said Saffo. 

“ Their work,” i)urs\ied the oiAtor, “ will crowd the men out of 
the skilled-labor market, and drive them to use their muscular 
strength.” 

“ This will be a good result,” said Saffo, softly. 

“ But machinery has replaced muscular force, and the result will be 
hard upon us; which I am sure you ladies would not wish to be,” 
said the gentleman, wdiose impressionable nature seemed charmed 
by these female politicians. 

Miss , as a physiologist, claims superior nervous power for 

the W'Omen. 

“ 1 am sure I wish them joy of that,” saith the susceplible one. 

“ Women,” she depones, “have not generally had the avenues 
of mental strengthening open to them, but still our greatest men 
have also worked their w’^ay against diiiiculties.” 

“ How is it,” says the wavering man, “ that speakers always tell 
us so much that is contained in our lesson-books?” 

“ Perhaps it is a sign that there is little original thought floating 
about the world,” said Saffo. 

He looked at her admiringly, until Miss further captivated 

his attention by standing on her own ground. 

“Here she is most at home, the sphere wl^ere woman shines,” 
said the susceptible man, who evidenlly did not know his own mind 
two minutes together. 

She quoted a" paper sent her from the Privy Council office, to the 
effect that my lords are much interested in the needlework classes, 
particularly — she had laid flne stress on this, it seemed so sweet and 
pretty of them— particularly in the cutting-out of garments. The 
audience tittered, it was piquant and amusing as she told it, with a 
humorous air. 

“And accurate cut does really interest my lords,” said Saffo’s 
neighbor. 

“ But does the School Board cut their shirt collars?” asked Saffo, 
as he seemed to know. Miss proceeded, with fine irony, 

“ My lords are of opinion that several hours might be usefully 
employed in needlework!” 

“ Dear me,” buzzed the audience, as she concluded amid ap- 
plause, leaving her hearers to draw the inference, and apply to it 
the argument for the advantages of female suffrage. 

Her speech, as a speech, W'as a good one, light and amusing, and 
well wound up. But still it had taught Saffo nothing, and it was a 


ADRIAlSr BRIGHT. 


293 


sad proof that even the best of lady speakers are no firmer than 
men in keeping; out of the way of tempting, but irrelevant, episodes. 

Mr. then put himself in evidence. He twirled his chain a good 

deal, and h’m-ha'ed heavily in the bass as a preamble, and then 
trotted on. 

He corrected the assertion of Miss , that properly is repre 

sented, not persons. He said, it is an axiom of our government that 
representation accompanies taxation. 

“ Then women may refuse to pay taxes,” thought Saffo, losing, 
meanwhile, the point of Mr. ’s anecdotes of interesting Moham- 

medans, both liberal and tolerant (remarkable in lltoslems), who 
were counseled thereunto by women. The interest in these w’orthies 
abated when he mentioned that they flourished about a.d. 1000; 
and it seemed that the like species had not been heard of since. Bo 
he talked of Hindoo women with fine names, who had wisely ad- 
ministered large provinces, and he floated off on Nurmahal. He 
seemed better up in his “ LallaHookh ” than in thestifferand belter 
authenticated histories. Then he came down to modern times. He 
said the argument against teaching the Indian women to write was 
this: Did they know that black art, they would write love-letters to 
all men. He tried very hard to be funny, but his efforts only re- 
minded Saffo of their old mother puss at home, playing ponder- 
ously with her own tail. 

” He is less interesting than Miss ; he is not so pretty to look 

at, and he strays from the point even further, w-ith his long Indian 
tales. Fancy that man taking mamma in to dinner,” thought Saffo, 
who preferred as logicians the French instructors at whose feet she 
had sat. They were really incisive in argument, and only lost tlieir 
cause when they lost their tempers, while these reasoners never 
stuck to a cause at all. 

This speaker is a barrister, and he says he would not mind seeing 
lady barristers as well as lady doctors, which sounds noble on his 
part, and is applauded; but he says it would soon prove whether 
women were fit for the bar or not, as if not clever, they would not 
get briefs. He seemed mortified that the audience did not laugh 
and he swelled into polysyllables and grew heavy after tliia sally, 
which was evidently the point of his speech. The chairwomen 
became bored by their advocate, and the audience marveled at the 
patience and long lives of the justices. 

“ How did he get briefs enough to keep him in mutton?” won- 
dered Saffo and others; “ and yet he lives!” 

Saffo was at first for going, but she determined to sit it out, and 
not let her impatience hinder her possible instruction. Another 
lady took up the text She looked highly intelligent, and had a 
sweet, tearful voice, suitable for the pathos of the case, whose turn 
was come ; as its logic and its history had been exhaustively treated 
already. 

This was the Melpomene of the meeting. 

She pleaded for patriotism ; the word has been changed of late to 
philanthropy, and “patriotism” is relegated to mere landscape- 
loving. It formerly meant brotherly love, so she said; deriving 
the \vord from the Greek for fellow-countryman. She talked of 
v/ives’ and mothers’ misery in the black country. She was tragic 


294 


ADlilAK BRIGHT. 


and persuasively eloquent in talking of the cruelly of poor-law 
guardians when unrestrained by the softening influences of woman- 
hood among them. She told how they gave Liebig’s extract in lieu 
of mutton to the paupers! and stopped their Christmas allowance 
of spirits-and- water. She wound up with a passage of invective 
from Junius, very peppery, but incorrectly given, in a voice like a 
sucking-dove. The audience was dangerously near to tears. It 
was sweet to have the feelings played upon thus musically. The 
stern sexes were like melting jelly. When up rose a youth, a gal- 
lant youth, with a good voice and mien, from among the crowd; a 
very young man, fresh from a debating society; and, with fluent 
speech, drew upon himself all eyes and animadversions. What did 
women want with political power? Did they make good use of the 
power they already had ? and so forth. AVomen should be womanly, 
and not usurp the place of nous autres, their natural protectors. 
He drew himself up. He wms very young: certainly under twenty. 
An eye-glass or two scanned this sucking protector; one or two 
voices murmured in pity, “Poor little boy! ’ in a molherly or 
grandmotherly way, softening oyer this plucky child who thus 
offered himself up as mince-meat under the cutting sentences of 
half a dozen of the cleverest women who practice public speaking, 
and boyishly imparted to them his discovery of the divine art of 
ovasucthm. 

Saffo well-nigh started from her seat in sympathy for the rash 
youth, as she saw Mrs. Skinflint rise, and prepare her scalpels of 
irony and scathing satire. But the professoress was restrained by 
milder counsels. Mildness was the line the ladies had taken up to- 
day, so the amused smiles which had beamed from the six counte- 
nances when first the young Demosthenes began his philippic gave 
place to a gentle, pitying gravity. They let the unstricken “ dear ” 
go play, and proceeded to business. 

A tall lady swallowed a glass of water to sustain her nervous 
•power, but she only talked tall and long, not powerfully. She hesi- 
tated, owing, no doubt, to want of practice in public speaking, or 
else feeling her logic shaky. One extract from her speech will 
serve to show the value of the rest. 

“lam not going to speak against men; hut, in the first place, 
they are simply idiotic.” 

Saffo wondered that no one was prepared to break a lance here. 
Perhaps the men were softened by the generosity of the ladies to 
their juvenile brother. 

Then another leading lady, influential rather from her social posi- 
tion than from her elocutionary talents, with hesitating tongue, bul 
hard words, answered the young man who championized his order, 
and set him down. She told him of how German young men, at 
the turning-point of their career, are forced to military service, and 
she thought it would be good for him if he could be likewise put 
under strict drill, and taught the goose-step perfectly. Then she 
diverged to topics in general. For herself, she admired socialists; 
but she did not pursue this subject long, nor give her reasons. She 
was a meandering orator, discursive and tiresome, and a proof of 
the bore a female parliament might be. She bestowed several pieces 
pf promiscuous information— as that German girls were book-taughf 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


295 


up to the age of fifteen, and not encouraged to open books after lhat 
age; that Russian people are Russians! (she meant Slaves); that 
trades unions exclude women because the}^ take low wages, and a 
good deal besides of things pretty generally known, or contradicted. 

“ This kind of gathering is like the Female Artists’ Society,” re- 
flected Saffo; ‘‘probably the most distinguished women do not 
join it.” 

Then up rose a powerful female voice and fluent tongue to win 
over to the cause the hitherto disaffected, and incidentally to con- 
vert the young hero of half an hour back. Besides being convinc- 
ing, because speaking out of her own convictions, she is lively and 
enTerlaining, speaks with a north-country accent, is proud of being 
a working woman, belonging to the lower middle classes, and is 
evidently their mouth-piece and best speaker. She is interesting, 
smart, and clever. People tell her, she says, ‘‘ A woman should be 
wife and mother, but Sally Jones was neither one nor t’other.” It 
is proposed to her that she should be like the mother of the Gracchi, 
only Mr. Gracchus, senior, has not yet proposed this to her, so how 
is she to manage it? She has no insurmountable objection to being 
the guiding-star of a ha])py, well-appointed home, but it so happens 
that there are few of these posts vacant. She finds, like most 
women of her time of life, that she has to work as well as to weep. 

But she made no fatiguing efforts to be funny; her remarks 
were both shrewd and sensible, and she stated her case clearly 
from her point of view. The Factory Acts, she said, are very 
arbitrary and hard upon the women. For their own protection, 
they are not allowed to work overtime, to make even the trifle of 
money that would be so useful to their families. 

To Saffo this sounded a wise and paternal rule; yet, so difficult 
is it to please everybody, that the factory women, whom it is in- 
tended to benefit, do not like it. Nor do children like being sent 
early to bed, nor having their allowance of jam shortened. This 
was the only one of all the speakers who kept to the subject of the 
meeting, the value of Female Suffrage to the community at large, 
and the necessity of it in female interests. She brought forward 
many apt cases in point as dexterously as a clever lawyer, and when 
at last she moved a resolution, there was an almost unanimous show 
of hands. 

The proceedings were well-nigh over. Mr. proposed a vote 

of thanks to the chairman, and corrected Mrs. , who spoke of 

the German women as unlettered, and said they were truly advanced 

women. Mr. seconded the vote of thanks. The chairman 

spoke glowingly on the privileges of the ratepayer’s position, and 
feelingly on their hardship, to an audience already busied in finding 
their hats and umbrellas. Some one at the back was whispering, 
” We’ll kick up a bobbery, and have some fun.” The audience 
was melting away. The impetuous Saffo could restrain herself no 
longer. These speakers, she said to herself, give one a fever, and 
that is all they know how to do. There is no strength behind their 
stimulant! 

‘‘Had they really,” she asked, almost aloud, ‘‘assembled the 
most advanced female spirits of the age to talk, to agitate, for this? 
And, after all, what was it? That a few female landowners should 


son ADRIAN’ RRTGHT. 

have votes for the election of sundry tongue-tied members of parlia- 
ment,” 

‘‘ Upward of thirty-seven thousand women,” mildly remonstrated 
her nearest female neighbor, quoting from the printed prospectus, 
” and between three and four hundred thousand women house- 
holders. ’ ’ 

‘‘Men and women,” began the ardent, impulsive Salfo, address- 
ing the moving assembly, ‘‘the question is not so much whetiier 
we women have a right to speak, either by our mouths or our mouth- 
pieces, as it is whether we have anything to say that is worth hear- 
ing. In order that our speech may be good, our lives behind it 
must be noble. Let us give men something worth hearing, with 
tlie weight of a grand life behind it, and they will listen readily 
enougli . ’ ’ 

Insensiblv the audience subsided into chairs, and prepared to listen 
to what Salfo had to say —to hear this pretty girl, with the glowing 
cheek, and earnest manner, and clear, sweet voice, with the thrill 
of feeling in it. The young male champion forced his way to a 
place near her, and looked like a proselyte, a worshiper. The 
chairman reseated himself, and looked interested. Salfo proceeded: 

‘‘ After all, man’s argument is, ‘ Don’t you wish you may get it?’ 
Our reply is, ‘ We wish we may.’ 1 don’t know that there is more 
logic on one side than on the other.” (Laughter, and cheers.) 
‘‘ At present we seem to have little more to say than has been said 
and printed many times; and men don’t wants to hear our voices. 
I don’t see why they should, as, for all our education, originality 
is rare as ever. We are a horde of copyists. Garrulous elderly 
people tell their old stories over and over again, and the old age of 
the world keeps on reiterating the same old echoes. If we have 
only the old, old story to tell, we must put a charm to the telling, 
a sweet tone; such as 1 have been delighted with this afternoon ” — 
she bent toward the chairwomen — ‘‘ a grace and beauty of manner; 
a clearness of reasoning, and no fog of words. As Joubert says, 

‘ Be profound with clear terms, and not with obscure terms;’ and 
as our sweet Shakespeare says, 

“ ‘ Grace is grace, despite of all controversy.’ ” 

(Much clapping of hands) “We women have no superfluous 
strength; it is poor economy to waste any in warfare, when so 
much has to be done. We must not arm mankind against us by 
our manner, nor occupy busy time with overmuch speaking. The 
fact you wish to tell is this, that we women are hungry; we wish to 
have our share of the world’s cake.” (Hear, hear.) “The truth 
we should tell is this, that We wish to have more cake, and to have 
the joy of feeding the hungry ones around us with it, though we do 
without it ourselves. Is not that what you feel, my sisters?” (A 
tempest of applause.) 

“We have been told that we should resemble the mother of the 
Gracchi. Let us examine, at home, what she really did. I think 
there are only two sentences recorded of her speaking, and neither 
of these would have made her an example, had there not been a fine 
life to back them. But we need not go back so far as to Cornelia 
or Portia. The lives of many women of our lime will compare iq 


ADRIAJ?- BRIGHT. 297 

beauty and goodness, certainly in aspiration, with those of any 
epoch. Our aims are as lofty our objects as unselfish.” (Hear, 
hear.) ” Oh, sisters, let our lives too be noble, our daily habits not 
trivial!” (Cheers.) “ Let us go home and strengthen our characters 
by correcting our weaknesses. See, then, if we shall not be offered 
our dictatorship, like Ciucinnatus, on bended knees. We will not 
seek education, or happiness, nr privileges, but usefulness.” (Hear, 
hear.) ” Men will let us be useful, and they will let us be stewards, 
or caretakers of possessions. We must take it as certain that edu- 
cation does not add to happiness; that being so, we must take care 
to further our usefulness by it, otherwise it will be a talent hid in a 
napkin. If w^e have it, we are stewards of it. But education is not 
the main thing. Ruskin speaks of frugality, diligence, punctuality, 
veracity, as the grand fountains from which money and all values 
spring. The moral worth is more than the mental worth. This 
teaches us to live, the other only how to talk.” (Cheers.) ” Then, 
as to the manner of our speakins:, when once we have practiced 
what we mean to say— again I must say this has been taught me 
here to-day by gracehil example. We hold not our parliaments in 
Billingsgate, but rightly in Westminster, among those who, being 
dead, yet speak eternally. Freedom of reply should never become 
invective. Pleading should not be a boxing-match in words. 
Women speakers must be known to exercise the temperance which 
gives a smoothness to debate, and men will welcome us gladly 
among th'em as fellow-workers to do our share in pioneering 
thought.” (Hear, hear.) ” Women are quick as thought, men are 
heavy — weighty, 1 mean — as words.” (A laugh.) “ The winged 
Pegasus feels the lumbering cart or chariot wheels behind, and is 
impeded by them. But the cart bears the burden, the chariot the 
warrior.” (Cheers.) ‘‘Let us be content that men should plow 
the rough ground of our law-making; let us smooth the rude lines 
after them and drop in the seeds of fertility and beauty. 1 think 
we may be useful in that way.” 

There had come a rush of words to Saffo’s lips, her eyes shot 
emerald fires, her rich color glowed with increased beauty, her tones 
held a fervor of deep passion. Her charm was electrical and ab- 
solute. 

1 he auditory was by turns moved, doubtful, shaken, convinced, 
as Saffo warmed in her speech, supporting the impression she had 
made. Not a soul left the hall. By turns rapid, sarcastic, humor- 
ous, picturesque, impassioned, she seemed to carry everything be- 
fore her. The music of her voice lent melody to scorn (of ill) and 
sometimes reached the depth of pathos, with a blending of humor 
and enthusiasm, the life and passion of the girl, which were her 
characteristics. Yet, withal, Saffo’s maiden speech was the speech 
of a maiden. Unaccustomed she was, indeed, to public speaking, 
yet she had the essential of oratory, an earnest feeling, which will 
always carry an audience away; in despite of itself, sometimes. 
‘‘ With eyes full of sacred imagination of things that are not,” seek* 
ing them in things that are, Saflo surveyed the whole of life. As 
the French have their atfections and their sentiment so curiously 
mixed up with homely things, bringing poetry into actual life in a 
way that makes us smile, and yet leading actual life up to poetry in 


ADllIAN BKIGHT. 


a way that makes us reverence the divinity in man, so was Saffo in 
her droll way of viewing things, and her poetical way of talking of 
daily things. Often they did not know if she were in jest or earnest. 
Always in earnest, she would say of herself; and, indeed, she put 
earnestness in all thinirs. But a plain truth sometimes sounds like 
a jest by its simple unexpectedness. 

“ La belle enfant, elle sait vivre,” said Friol of her, as she put 
life into the daily round at home, and added happiness to goodness. 
She lived in the effort of doing good; good as she viewed it, truly: 
but earnest, heartfelt wwk is never wasted, though it seem to fall 
to dust. Its seed is in itself. 

To-day she had succeeded, she had roused this meeting to fervor; 
the ardor of a crusade for a holy cause. As far as these busy worn- 
en’s minds w’ere lifted above the level view of the w^hole duty of 
w’^oman — “ wearing fine clothes gracefully,” so far was Salfo above 
them in not thinking a life's pimpose was best fulfilled by talking 
well and copiously. They were ready to crown her en masse. The 
chairwomen wanted her to become one of them ; the middle-aged 

gentleman transferred his admiration from Miss of the School 

Board to Saffo. The misogynist youth was converted, and he fol- 
lowed her quickly and won a smile as he held the swinging doors 
open for her to pass; but nobody could interview her, for, having 
fulfilled her mission, she passed like a will-o’-the-wisp out of the 
assembly, not to be found, only to be remembered as something 
wild, and beautiful, and strange. 

Nothing was said at home that night, but the next day brought 
an account of the meeting in the newspaper, and a summary of the 
speech of the unknown, w’ho, according to the enthusiastic reporter, 
was a very Joan of Arc in fervor and in stern self-limitation. 
Through Linda, it was known at home that this heroine was Saffo; 
and Linda was not sparing of her censures, and May looked very 
shocked over Saffo’s disregard of the opinions of mankind (in 
general). 

“ Ah, I’m a confirmed old maid,” said Saffo, with good-humor. 

” Saffo, this time of your life is a most critical time,” said May, 
solemnly. “ You have to think of how to wun the heart of some 
young man, and be made happy for life.” 

They all lauglied. J\Iay was wounded. 

“You laugh, and I seem to have said something stupid ; but if 
you examine them you will find the germ of truth in my words.” 

They laughed the more. 

But Saffo had herself grown since yesterday morning, and to-day 
she was not quite so eager about the wholesale deportation of women. 

“ I see,” she said to her father, while they sat at breakfast, “ that 
whatever is done for the middle and upper classes must be done in 
the interest of the women — the great majority, who arc to the men 
in the proportion of three to one, and in most social gatherings in the 
proportion of five to one. That is the general rule at evening 
parties.” 

Mr. Bright was silent. He saw no possible influence of phosphates 
on figures like these. Jack lifted a dish cover. Most of them had 
finished breakfast. 

“ There are seven herrings in the 'dish. If mamma doesn’t care 


ABRIiVK BRIGHT. S99 

about auy, there are three and a half for me, and three and a half 
for you, Dick.” 

Bobby helped himself to two herrings under Jack’s very nose, 
puzzling his calculations also. 


CHAPTER XLIL 

“Des sottises faites par des ^ens habiles; des extravagances dites paries 
gens d’esprit ; des crimes cominis par d’honnetesgens— voila des revolutions." 

De Bonald. 

The hall was finished at the Brights, and the man with a soul had 
cleared out that possession with the rest of his chattels. 

Nothing now stood in the way of the Brights’ model festival. 

” I have the most sublime conception of a party, but it won’t come 
out; .you understand me?” said Cinderella. 

” That’s just what I have,” said long-tongued Jack. 

‘‘ Les grands esprits se rencontreut, ” put in Saffo, good-humoredly. 
The form the party should take was a difficult problem. Dinner 
would not do, it is too prosaic; a dance is not catholic enough; a 
musical evening not striking enough. Theatricals they had not 
prepared. Mrs. Bright suggested “festival” as a word not too 
specific, leaving them freedom of action to the very last. 

“ Yes,” cried Saflfo', entliusiastically. “ We can trust to inspira- 
tion for brilliant impromptu entertainments. We shall have all the 
material to our hands; light, mirth, motion, grace, and beauty. The 
result, as we shall mix it and make it effervesce, will be a foaming 
whirl of gladness. Uh, yes, we will hold revelry and have a 
festival.” 

The word festival conjured up a delicious Arabian Nights’ vision. 
IMrs. Bright smiled as ’she thought of old ladies and gentlemen, stiff- 
jointed, like Mr. Fairfax, or comfortabl}'^ clubby, like Lord Palairet, 
effervescing in a whirli)ool of gladness. People like these would not 
have accepted invitations to a ball, but by a festival they might un- 
derstand a large “ at home,” with talk in the intervals of music of 
the great masters interpreted by professional talent. 

“ Impromptus always mean bad charades,” objected Tom. “ Do 
have something proper.” 

“ It is a pity we are obliged to have our party at this dead time of 
the year,” said ’Rella, regretfully. “ The beginning of November 
is the most uncomfortable season of any.” 

“ Iff}’- principle is to have amusement at the time you most need 
it,” said Saffo, warmly. “ 1 recognize amusement as the principle 
of social meeting; and the dull season is when one most requires it.” 

“ What shall 1 look out for in the Cob list?” said Mr. Bright, try- 
ing to bring the programme down to detail. “ And whose men shall 
we hire to wait?” 

“1 should not descend to commonplace waiters if I were 
mamma,” said Saffo, who had a vision of welcoming her friends by 
flower-girls strewing flowers and crowning them with garlands. 

“ The neat-handed Phyllis waits better than any one else,” said 
Mrs. Bright; “ and, as Adrian says she dresses better than any one 
else in England, we cannot go wrong in letting the maids wait on 
our guests, ” 


ADHTAN BRIGHT. 


300 

But, altliough Adrian had Been heard, on his reputation as a 
sculptor, to declare that the British house-maid was the best-dressed 
woman on week-days and the worst-dressed on Sundays, he had not 
reckoned the Brights’ foreign maid-servants in his category. 

The particular neat-handed Phyllis in qpiestion was a sleepy Ger- 
man parlor-maid, a Goth just arrived from aPlatt-Deutsch-speaking 
province, with a name less graud than Amalasontha’s, but 'a waist 
like the Venus d^oompjes. A contrast to Rosetta, who substituted 
activity for soli(fny% and was formed like an hour-glass, under the 
pressure of business and stays. 

Though Satio held the abolition of servants to be an end as desir- 
able as the abolition of slavery, the Brights had not attained this 
desirable consummation; so they had several relays of these Gothic 
maidens, and Friol, who remained a time-honored institution, taue;ht 
them their places. He had with infinite painstaking trained Rosetta 
to take the situation of cook under him, and Elizabeth of England, 
otherwise Lizabulf, was promoted to rule over the nursery. 
“ Beelzebub,” used Robert le Diable to shout up the stairs, trusting 
to the similarity of the rhythm. “ Yes, sir,” would Elizabeth shriek 
back, innocently, in reply. 

The Brights were engaging a new servant, and they wanted to 
have her in time to train her for the party. A few days before her 
expected arrival Cinderella was out walking with her mother. A 
cab passed them with large luggage on the roof. 

“lam thankful that that hideous female is not our new German 
servant,” said Mrs. Bright, ” but she must be some one else’s — 

‘ Gothic maiden ’ is so plainly written on her countenance, and her 
highly flavored dress, a mixture of rose-color and green,” 

But on their own door-step they saw the ark of luggage and the 
lively shawl of the proprietress. This plain person was their new 
handmaiden, forwarded through from Bremen by the agent. There 
was nothing for it but to hope her good qualities surpassed her 
charms. Her testimonials were excellent, her Diensthuch was duly 
filled up and attested. This matter of choosing servants by written 
description allows so much margin for favorable prejudice. 

” I feel like Henry VIII. when they sent over Anne of Cleves to 
him,” said Mrs. Bright, who liked her servants to be pretty. 

‘‘As she is not beautiful, we must make her picturesque,” said 
Saffo, firmly. 

. So they dressed the Amalasontha of the day in costume which she 
i fondly supposed to be the English fashion. Visitors as firmly held 
it to be Gothic, strictly Gothic. 

We can make her wear what we like,” said Cinderella. 

“ Of course we know what is the correct English fashion better 
than she can do,” argued Salfo, as she dressed her new attendant in 
a pink-striped apron trimmed with bone lace, and cutout large cuffs 
and a collar of picturesque shape for her to make. 

‘‘ An English servant would object to be made a ‘ Guy Fox ’ of,” 
said Bobby, who threatened to ‘‘ blow the roast,” as Jack called it. 

The new Amalasontha (whose real name was Mathilde, pronounced 
by herself and the boys as” Mottled,”) laid the dinner- table in what 
’Rella called the ” Japanese stvle;” that is, thedishes were set down 
promiscuously withouf icgsra 'Z' symmetry. In removing the things, 


AT>RTAK BRTCmT, 


30 L 


she made herself the focus of everytliing, wayla5Mng the plates, 
knives, and forks with one swi'eping attraction as she' reached over 
to gatlier everything around her for removal, and keeping up a run- 
ning tire of explanations of her system in the Low-German dialect 
during the process. She hardly promised to be worth her salt, 
much less her costume, beer, and education. 

“ Now for the Cob list,” said INlr. J3right. 

It was a difficult matter to choose supplies at once solid enough 
for tile hungry multitude, and ethereal enough for Satfo’s taste. 

“ We will not have things too solid,” she said. ” Nor yet ape the 
pretentious prodigality we miscall civilization. At every grand din- 
ner, food enough is wasted to feed a whole street. We will give 
them tiowers, and lights, and happiness, with just the more refined 
forms of food, a sort of ambrosia and nectar.” 

” Linda had all sorts of good things at her party,” said Dick. 
“ Day Flitters told us so.” 

” 1 dare say she had lots of apples and jumbles,” said Arthur, re- 
flectively. 

“ Of course Linda talked big about her fine party,” said Bobby; 
*‘ she is as proud of what she does as a dog with two tails.” 

“ Bobby, don’t be vulgar,” said May. 

” We had better have a lot of thick sandwiches for the hungry 
people — great ‘ schinken dinge,’ as Gussie calls them,” said Dick; 
” if they are hungry, they can eat them, if not, they can laugh at 
them. It will be part of the entertainment. That is about the 
principle of primary movement, I take it. Eh, Saffo?” 

” But I don’t like people to laugh at us,” objected Tom. 

” We will give them something to respect as well,” said ’Bella. 

“ We’ll give them — apples, and jumbles, and beautiful things, 
like Linda had at her party,” cried Bobby. 

“.Jumbles, indeed, you horrid Bobbyl” exclaimed May. 

“Yes, we’ll give them jumbles, and the cream of culture as 
well,” said Saffo. 

“ Don’t let me forget to order in a case of potash water,” said Mr. 
Bright, reminded of it by just having washed his hands with his 
favorite potash soap. 

“ Oh, papa, I don’t think you will forget it,” said ’Bella, laugh- 
ing. 

The girls went down to consult Friol and Bosetta about what 
would be wanted, and what they had better try their hands on for a 
rehearsal of the cookery. 

Friol liked to see Saffo in the kitchen, though she did make such 
a mess, and in making a jelly used nine forks, and as many plates 
and basins in the operation. He liked to see her “ looking after dd 
little animal mans of her fader and broders. C’est si femme!” 
When Flitters came, she brought with her a famous thing that Mrs. 
Jonas, her landlady, always used for whisking eggs and making 
spongy, frothy foods in general. It had seemed indispensable in 
Linda’s party preparations. She showed Saffo how to use it, but 
somehow it would not work so well as usual. Could it have got 
out of order in any way? It seemed so sweetly simple in Mrs. 
Jonas’s hands; but now the wheels, pulleys, cogs, and handles 


ADEIAX BRIGHT. 


303 

see»ned complicated. It kept stopping short- and sputtering the 
pulp up ill their faces. A fork, even nine forks, seemed almost easier. 

“ Oh, ’orribell, infernol machine!” cried Friol, when he tried the 
patent article, and reverted to the cut vine-twig used in his country 
after all. 

“ Where is the mortar?” asked ’Rella, who wanted to make up 
Flitters’s mva wee prescription for a cake. 

‘‘ The Herr Dolvtor has him,” said Rosetta. 

” Papa is in the habit of pounding some highly poisonous disin- 
fectant in my mortar,” ’Rella explained to Flitters; “we have t<> 
scour it with brick-dust, etc., every time I want to squeeze a knob 
of sugar for my cake. It doesn’t pay me. It is easier to use the 
hammer or a brick.” 

The boys pronounced that the cake, after all, tasted like wash- 
ing-day, and dainty Dick wrapped it up in a newspaper and gave it 
to an errand-boy, who would perhaps ” be the better for it. ” it 
was hard as the pie-crust that Germans call ” tile,” and which they 
make so as to favor the idea. 

” Some have the faculty of accumulating, some of using, knowl- 
edge,” said Saffo, comparing Cinderella’s more practical knowledge 
of cookery with her own. 

” Which is which?” asked argumentative Jack, ” and which has 
most common-sense?” 

” 1 know which has most talent,” said Cinderella, who believed 
in Saffo. 

Saffo kissed her. 

” And that is you, you little darling. I claim the common -sense, 
notwithstanding Jack’s insinuation. Yet, alas! for me, ‘ sense dis- 
covers natural things, but darkens or shuts up divine.’ ” 

“ Oh, 1 say,” quoth Jack, ” is that your own?” 

“Bacon!” said Saffo, solemnly. 

“ Ah, talking of bacon, Rosetta says we’ve got no lard,” chimed 
in Bobby. 

“ Du bist— Bobby,” said Cinderella. 

“ You mny as well say, ' talking of Greece, there is no drip- 
ping,’ ” said Flitters. 

Saffo could not stand fire of this sort, so she and ’Rella began a 
course of drill with “ Mottled ” in the best way to remove the tea 
and set the tables for refreshments. 

“ Shall I bring up the cheese too?” asked she, in her native, 
tongue. Saffo augured evil from this amount of inexperience. It 
was disheartening to work with such very raw material. Mis 
Bright begged her not to distress herself about the supper and re 
freshments, but to turn her attention to her own department of the 
entertainments. ‘ She would guarantee a supper. 

“ But my principles, oh, my mother! Hovr ashamed I shall be to 
confess that such and such things are not made at home. It is an 
avowal of incompetence. The tasteful preparation of food is the 
first accomplishment of a girl.” 

Mrs. Bright thought the case exceptional. 

“ But I don’t like the burden to be cast on you,” said Saffo. 

“ Oh, I shall make light of it; besides, 1 have sold my picture 
^ell, and am in funds.” 


ADRIAN RlilGHT. 


303 

Saffo was pleased enou,e:h to turn lier attention exchisivel}'' to tlic 
ainusemeuls for the evening. Most people’s parties crush the life 
out of one. The guests mostly sit so still and vacuouslv solemn 
while some one discourses to them on topics perfectly indifferent to 
both. The Brights (in their parties given for pleasure) always in 
some way developed the life and drew out the best social powers of 
all their guests. This was what made their parties pleasant beyond 
others. That is, an}'- but their duty-parties, such as they gave to 
Mrs. Nugent. But the occasions for these were rare. They always 
])laced their old and well-known friends in a position where they 
would shine, or, at least, be happy, while they never sought new 
friends among the merely fashionable or common place. Other 
things being equal, Saffo said she preferred beauty and talent to the 
gifts of the ordinary run of good people. But they sometimes 
found excellent qualities where others, less clear sighted, would not 
dream of looking for them. Mrs. Bright always looked for their 
line of thought even if their line of action was not discernible. 

Above all, they never quelled the natural pleasures, but turned 
these to account, and added to them, as a painter makes use of a 
fortunate accident and works it into his picture. You were never 
forced to be lively at the Brights. If you felt languid, you might 
sit still and be amused; if energetic, inventive, and eager for ap- 
plause, there was scope for your talent. Here was the charm of 
IVIrs. Bright and her daughters, that they were so quick to see and 
draw out ability. 

“ Given a party of persons all more or less able to do something,” 
Saffo used to say it was hard if she ” could not organize an inter- 
esting evening out of such supplies,” if she could not mix the in- 
gredients of such a party. She looked upon herself in the light of 
a cook, who has to make the raw material piquant, savory, or in 
some way appetizing. Most parties arc a mere hash— some are dry 
bread. 

As regards the Brights’ poverty, on account of the burden, as 
most people called it, of their thirteen children, the sensible Lord 
Palairet would appositely ask; 

“How can they be poor, when every minute adds something to 
their possessions?” 

And so it was. There was always something new, or newly-de- 
veloped, to see or hear at the Brights’; for they had culture enough 
to make everything they took in hand worth doing, or in some 
wav admirable. 

Yet for all this, to one like Saffo, ” who illumined her life with 
dreaming,” it is natural that the details of even a model festival 
should seem prosaic. Saffo found this at every turn. Everybody 
worried her with reminders and suggestions when she was m the 
fervor of a delightful idea. 

liemembcr to put in your note, ‘ Do you mind K.S.V. Playing 
as soon as you can?” said* Augusta, who was always making out lists 
of e." pected guests. 

” I fear this party will be an elaborate fallacy,” said the erudite, 
but depressing. May. 

They were discussing the theatricals they had once thought of 
having, bui- Saffo ruled that they had not time to prepare any play 


304 


ADllIAJSr BKKUIT. 


worth seeing, and she did not wish her entertainment to be classed 
with those where the universid admirers are able to say, with feel- 
ing, “ Yes, and wasn’t the prompter good?” 

” This horrid old vase will do to smash for the play, if you should 
have it, after all,” said Julia, oilering a relic of her childhood’s 
days. 

“ No, keep it to give to the Kyrle Society to bring beauty home 
to the people,” said the more sarcastic Junia. 

” We must mind and put Mr. Grubb clown for something in the 
programme,” said Cinderella. “ He is so talented, he can do every- 
thing.” 

“I don’t know that he does anything that can be put in a pro- 
gramme,” said Satfo. ” His line is general genius.” 

” 1 never heard him do more than meander a little on the piano,” 
said Flitters. “ He is just a luminous soul.” 

” Only this, and nothing more,” said Saffo. 

” We really ought to have some acting,” said May, seriously; 
“ lor there is one thing I must say for us, whatever our shortcom- 
ings may be in the matter of plates and glasses, etc., we hsve an 
uncommonly good room for acting.” 

” Don’t fear, my children, we shall have plenty of acting,” said 
Ihe elder sister; we are only waiting for Hermione to come and 
rehearse with us. Daisy is here to accompany us.” 

” Oh, you are going to do something musical,” murmured the 
disappointed May. 

“ 1 want you to sing one or two of your pretty unaccompanied 
ballads, ’Rella,” said Sallo. 

” Oh, my singing sounds nothing in our big drawdng-room,” 
remonsi rated ’Rella, ‘‘and 1 should be nervous, like 1 was at the 
Frippses.” 

‘‘But you were alone there. You would not be nervous at 
home.” 

‘‘ Perhaps not. It rather takes the go out of one’s song, if one is 
♦ there without one’s mither; trying a new dodge, and liow they’ll 
like it. Mr. Fripps said he thought he was at a picnic.” 

‘‘Are you going to have dancing?” asked Flitters, who was 
thinking of her dress, and how she should contrive to furbish up 
her old gold— her very old gold— gown, which, she said, was begin- 
ning to show the copper rims and the metal underneath. 

Not regular dancing, 1 think. 1 don’t care much for dancing 
nor does ’Rella.” 

“Oh, don’t you?” cried Flitters. “1 think it is a heavenly 
whirl.” 

‘‘ I suppose it is because I do not take at a dance. You saw 
those young men at the Frippses last night? They were expected 
to dance with me, two or three times apiece; and they didn’t— they 
asked you instead.” 

‘‘ Ah, vou snubbed them.” 

“No, 1 didn’t. 1 didn’t speak to them at all. ” 

“ Ah, there it is.” 

“ Now, it’s a singular fact,” said Salto, “ that 1 either cotton to 
people at once, or not at all. Sometimes they grow upon me, but 
it is rarely 1 take with people who have at first disliked me. They 



ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


o05 


always w’ant to alter me somehow, and by the time I have been 
peeled in dress, or in voice, or had some of my manners taken off 
me, 1 have found my new friend is not worth the trouble 1 have 
taken to please him. I can always get on better with old people 
than with young ones.” 

This was the fact. The young people always found that Saffo 
required such a great deal of room to set up her own lights in, that 
she finished by turning theirs out, and extinguishing them alto- 
gether. To older people she was more gentle, and they relished the 
charming, winning ways of her youthful energy. And she was 
always so full of life, and this is refreshing to old people by force 
of contrast. Adrian said of her: 

“ Saffo’s face is a speaking face, a melody-breathing face. At 
fort}’-, when a life’s history is written there, it will be one of the 
most interesting faces I know.” 

” 1 like it much better than her cousin Linda’s,” said Adrian’s 
father. 

” Linda is infinitely handsomer,” said Adrian. 

“ What are you going to wear?” asked Flitters. 

The girls were "busy, while waiting for Hermione to come to 
practice with them. Saffo was sketching out her programme, and 
Flitters was making herself a best bonnet out of a scrap of velvet, 
insufficient, as most people would have thought, to make a head- 
dress for a mouse. 

Oh, I can make a little go as far as any one. My small figure 
is a convenience to me in helping out my principles.” She looked 
sideways at Saffo as she used the tall word, ” principles.” ” I have 
often told you I can help nine people off a mutton-chop. Of course 
I can make a bonnet to cover my little brains with three inches of 
velvet, and have some to spare. But do tell me what you are going 
to wear at your party.” 

‘‘ A marvel of loveliness. Ohl you will see my ideal of drapery 
at last. That is, my ideal of to-day. 1 may have altered it by 
further development to-morrow.” 

“ Until it has * evoluted’ into quite something else,” said Flitters. 

“Precisely so. That is essentially the theory of perfectibility. 
Perpetual change of practice on a fixed principle.” 

“ Working on a pivot like a weathercock,” said Flitters. “ H’m, 
I don’t see it.” 

The objection made Saffo thoughtful, but put her on the defen- 
sive. 

“ Growth implies change. Gladstone is a growing man— I mean 
Herbert, not his father; he has nearly done growing. 1 am grow- 
ing.” 

Saffo certainly did veer about in her opinions a good deal, if this 
implied growth. She went away to get her dress to show to Flit- 
ters. 

“This is my robe.” She re-entered with a cloud of soft pink 
stuff, not yet in dress form, but sw'eetly delicate in tint, like the 
rosy clouds in the west. “Is it not like crumpled rose leaves?” 
She fiung masses of it round her person. “ You see, 1 shall drape 
it just like so, gather a group of folds just here, and fasten it with 


306 ^DKIAN BEIGHT. 

a few dying leaves here and there, and let it flow easily everywhere 
else.” 

“ But it will not fit you very well, will it?” asked Flitters, anx- 
iously. 

tSatt'o ceitainly looked charming with the rosy drapery twined 
about her, with her dark hair loosened on her neck by the various 
works she had been doing and trying, and her flushed cheeks and 
brilliant eyes like transcendent gooseberries, as her brethren called 
them. Remarkable, marvelous gooseberries. 

” 1 must always be able to say ‘ Merciful Zeus!’ in any dress,” 
said Saflo, holding her hands high above her head, in an atitude of 
invocation. ‘‘ Allow for that, and the fit is perfect.” 

” It takes an immense quantity of stuff to enable one to say 
‘Merciful Zeus!’ comfortably,” said Flitters. 

” Garments at the best period of art were never tight,” said Saffo, 
gently. 

The street-door bell rang. 

” Fly, children, and see who it is,” said ISaffo, who was suffocated 
in the clouds of her robe. ” This dress must not be seen before our 
festival.” The heads w’^ere at the window, of course. 

” It is some people in a carriage like Mrs. Nugent’s.” 

” Mrs. Nugent’s cab is called a broom,” said Bambino, rushing 
off. 

” No one must come up here,” cried Saflo, writhing among her 
dress. 

It was too late. The too- obliging Bambino had already opened 
the front-door to a lady and gentleman. Dick, who had been ar- 
ranging some private theatricals of his own up-stairs, was coming 
down with properties under his arm. 

” Dick, it is a man— it is a man,” cried Bimbo, eagerly. 

Dick pitched his properties over the balusters and came forward, 
holding one hand, engaged with a gridiron and a rasher of practica- 
ble bacon, indispensable in his role, carefully behind his body. It 
would not do to let drop a rasher of bacon, not even theatrical 
bacon. 

” This young man isn’t able to understand properly,” said the 
gentleman to Dick, while Bimbo was occupied in flirtation with the 
lady. ” Is Mrs. Bright visible?” 

” ISIy mother’s at home. I don’t know if she is visible or not,” 
said Dick, trying to sidle off without showing his gridiron, etc. 
” Bimbo, run and tell mamma.” Fortunately, "here Friol appeared 
and lightened Dick’s burden, and Hermione entered while the 
front door was still ajar. She frightened Saffo a good deal by open- 
ing the door of her room; but the sight of Hermione was enough to 
calm them all. 

” What a lovely color,” said Hermione. 

” Yes, wdth our Roman scarf round my waist, it will be quite too 
delicious.” 

” You say ‘ our Roman scarf,’ as if it were family property,” 
said Flitters. ^ 

“And that is the strict truth,” returned Saffo. “Any of us 
wear it.” 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


/ 


sor 


“ That multiplies it into thirteen Roman scarfs,” said Hermione. 

” That is oiir way of helpiu}>: tiurteeu people off a chop, you see,” 
said Saffo to Fli'ters. ” I beat you there.” 

” Saffo, with her miles of gown, has been laughing at my minia- 
ture best bonnet,” said Flitters, holding up the microscopic article. 
” It i.s not easy to buy full classical dresses out of the margin al- 
lowed, after paying for board and lodging and Herr Grollenicht’s 
polish, from music-lessons and playing at parties on my terms. It 
is not many people who give me a good bonus, like Lady Glory 
Amedvoz, or let me give the lessons when I can do so without 
prejudice, like Mrs. Bright does. Herr Grollenicht gets forty times 
what I do, and I think I earn it hardest. Heigho! it quite gives me 
the Katzenjammer! I must begin and make a fortune somehow,” 
sighed Flitters, kaizen jammerfully, ere she proceeded. ” The pro- 
fessor was telling me 1 ought to enter a choir. He says 1 should get 
at least twenty-five guineas a year. ]\lany clergymen pay half a 
guinea a service.” 

“ Oh, I should accept it, decidedly,” said May. 

” But I can’t find the clergymen who habitually give their 
sopranos twenty-five guineas a year.” 

” Oh, no,” cried Bobby, ” you are quite out there. A choir boy 
told me the regular price was twopence a service, and find your own 
surplices and washing.” 

This was a depressing view of the case, but Bobby did not seem 
to mind it. JJowever, this talk on dress and finance gave Hermione 
the opportunity she had sought, to offer without offense the pink- 
and-black silk dress that had attracted such lively admiration from 
Little Flitters when she examined her troussmu. That elegant con- 
fection, with all its ruchings, and fringes, and pink silk network. 
Hermione longed to have it altered for Flitters to wear at Saffo’s 
party; and she drew the little music-mistress aside while she whis- 
pered the proposition. 

The little body was ready to burst with delight at having such a 
lovely casing ready to slip into, and easy enough to play a sym- 
phony in, without risk to the seams, or even to say “ Merciful 
Zeus!” in, should occasion require. The very cuttings of it, after 
the alterations were made, wouH be enough to make three dresses 
on Flitters’s principles. Saffo’s ideal garment would never create 
the rapture this had given. 


“ Now you have admired the finery, admire my golden lily.” 
’Rella pointed with pride to a fine lilium auratum growing in a blue- 
and-bronze pot of Spanish ware. This will be fully out in time 
for our party. I planted it late. It only just peeped above ground 
at midsummer, and now, look at these five beautiful buds! Our 
chrysanthemums will be ready too.” 

‘‘ It will be lovely,” said Hermione, warmly. “ Now, tell me 
about your plans.” 

“ We allow for the company, being the chief part of the show, 
and our wits, being on the spot,” said Saffo. 

” What, would you leave it all to chance?” 

” No, but I would take advantage of chance. ” 

Hermione marveled. 


ADRIAN ERTOHT. 


308 

“ 1 loam so mncli from you,” she said. “ I could not trust to 
tliinkiii/]; of things at the moment 1 wanted them. I should want 
to try everything over beforehand.” 

” For theatricals one must do so, I know,” said Flitters, ” as much 
as for concerted music. In those charades we improvised at the 
Frippses we felt in such a dreadful hurry. 1 had to be a fairy, and 
twice Mrs. Fripps shoved me into my green-gauze dress, hind-part 
before; and when at last 1 had it right, and I had to come out at the 
top, I couldn’t come out at the top, because the string was tied too 
tight; and my entrance music was pla 5 ’'ing all the while.” 

They all laughed. 

‘‘ And yet those charades were delightfully fresh and amusing,” 
said SalTo. ” We laughed more than we could at a set piece.” 

” Perhaps Daisy did not enjoy it as much as we all did,” said 
Hermione. 

” I hope you have asked Mildred Mill,” said May anxiously. 

” Who is she?” asked Salfo. 

” She is May’s High-school friend.” explained ’Rella. 

” Oh, dan’t have liei,” cried Jack. “ She’s as bine as the Dead 
Sea. She’s always trying to make us laugh at a Greek joke; and 
using queer names, with hard c’s and g’s in them. Her talk is 
like so much repetition that she has looked up, and then she comes 
here and spouts, thinking ’Bella won’t know anything about 
Smith’s ‘ Smaller Classical History.’ ” 

“ She writes French and Latin poetry too,” agreed Dick. “ And 
she is altogether a bore.” 

“We’ll set the two poets, Mr. Grubb and her, together, and 
make them amuse each other, and spout to us,” said Jack. “ That 
is, if they must come.” 

“ People won’t understand the French poem nor the Greek 
joke,” objected Dick. 

“ But they sound well,” said May, who appreciated scholarship; 
“and it is creditable to have such things done in the house.” 

The outcome of all this was that Saffo and the rest planned a 
pleasant entertainment, and Mrs. Bright assisted them to make it a 
really delightful party Bimbo was very eager for the day to arrive; 
and was constantly asking, “ Is it to-morrow now?” To which 
they were all puzzled in turn to find an answer. 

]\[r. and Mrs. Bright were not old in feeling, but still alert and 
gay. They lived again in their children, whose- promise repeated 
for them their own youth. To have sympathy with the 3 mung is the 
way to retain youth. There should be a reverence for jojq as w^ell 
as for sorrow. When bright eyes look on brightness, they reflect it 
back, and light up countless lamps, to shine upon the path of life. 
If culture be the cup of tea that cheers, but not inebriates, it needs 
the milk of human kindness and the sugar of pleasure to render it 
palatable to most of us. 


ADRTA2I BRIGHT, 


309 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

“ There was a sound of revelry by night, 

♦ * * * * ^^« # 

The lamps shone o’er fair women and brave men ; 

A thousand hearts beat happily ; and when 
Music arose with its voluptuous swell. 

Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, 

And all went merry as a marriage bell. 

But, hush I hark I a deep sound strikes like a rising knell.’’ 

Childe Harold, 

The clay of the momentous party at length arrived. 

“ I shall not take out my painting-tackle to-day,” decided Saffo. 
“ 1 shall only do a little reading, if I have a lot of leisure on my 
hands.” 

Leisure, indeed! And Saffo was the mainspring of a complica- 
tion of two hundred and titty, or more, people; probably many 
more. The Brights’ parties were usually elastic. 

” 1 don’t believe much in Saffo’s leisure,” said Jack to Dick. 

“Besides, she has her dress to drape yet,” whispered Dick to 
Jack. 

“ She always allows an average of half an hour for works of im- 
portance,” returned Jack, in a low but satirical tone. 

And all too soon indeed arrived the evening of the momentous 
party. Tom Bright brought his friend, Augustus Smitlh He 
seldom dares venture on this step, for the elegant Augustus is a 
critic of the sharpest tooth, he has the keenest eye for a weak spot 
in the social system. But to day is the “ At Home ” day at the 
Brights’ (the day when home is turned out of doors, and looks least 
homely), and things are sure to be presentable to-day, and as they 
should be to meet the eye of so elegant a youth as Augustus Smith, 
who is always so spick and span. Flitters calls him “ Little Collars 
and Cuffs,” but it is an understood thing that Flitters has no eye 
for the truly beautiful. Any way, Tom respects him highly. 

The two young men came preternatural ly early, Toni having to 
dress. The carrying trade was still brisk; Friol was nailing down 
carpet; Saffo, in her oldest gown, was lifting heavy plants up- 
stairs to decorate her stage; Jack, in his shirt-sleeves, was rushing 
down with the baby’s bath to hold some rough ice; Dick w’as 
mounted on the steps, hanging up Saffo’s newly-and-not-quitely 
tinished portieres; the unfinished part tucked in and warranted not 
to show. 

“ To be concluded in our next reception,” said Dick, as he ham- 
mered in the last nail. 

A ring at the fourteenth-century bell, and the elegant Augustus 
stood on the threshold! Tom, seeing the commotion, blushed like 
a crimson fuchsia, and hung his head like the same. 

“ Re of the Faultless Linen looks condescending, don’t he?” 
said Dick, who respected nobody, in an aside to Cinderella. 

“ We are not ‘ at home ’ yet; it is not eight o’clock,” explained 
3affo, as the elegant youth offered (only offered) to relieve her of 

- V . * 


• ^ 


ADKIA-N- BTIIGHT. 


310 

the palm tree she was carrying. She felt for his gloves too much to 
let him do more than offer. iMr. Bright gave the young man his 
choice of three courses, viz., to walk up and down outside, to stay 
in the dust of the upholstering, or to sit in the study reading 
“ Darke on the Hypophosphites,” Be went up-stairs with Tom. 

The bell began to jingle, then to play faster, and then to keep up 
a running accompaniment to their exertions, and the ladies’ cloak- 
room was already full. The early hour named for the party to be- 
gin did not seem so well-judged now as it did when Saffo laid down 
her law to her world of sisters thus: 

“ I don’t like that plan of inviting people late. It seems to say 
‘ The less I see of you the better.’ ” It was an opinion pleasanter 
to hold than to apply. 

The bell played a presto movement, and Saffo flew up-slaira to 
dress; leaving Augusta, who, in a new artistic dress which Tom 
styled “ a horrible suit of clothes,” had been set to watch that the 
gentlemen did not destroy their overcoats by putting them- on the 
freshly-painted cmsone in the inner hall. She was in a state of 
frenzy as man after man had to be cautioned away to goodness 
knows where, and their wraps were added to the cairn which w'as 
assuming large proportions on the floor — the over-loaded hooks re- 
fusing to hold anything more. 

Nobody had (bought of men as beings with an outer rind, al- 
though Saffo had fitted up the loveliest of bowers for the ladies. 

Meanwhile they were desperately busy up-stairs. Flitters was 
hurrieilly stitching the neck-piece of Saffo’s dress, or rather dra- 
pery, for the evening; the costume, of a hue which she called ” the 
rosy flush of the sunset,” which was meant to be a revelation. Her- 
mione. who was asked to come early, was struggling with a sleeve 
(the other sleeve was unmade), and the nurse was sewing in the 
hooks, yet after all this it was not ready in time. It could not be, 
for the robe had to be half made from the time of Hermione’s arri- 
val. 

^ ‘‘ Life is a failure,” sighed Saffo, ” a system of failures. I must 
wear my Margot Marguerite dress and a ham-frill round my neck.” 

“Like the Greeks, eh?” said Juh’a, mischievously. Saffo held 
fast by Parnassian doctrines, as we know. 

Hermione wore a ruffle, which she took off and gave to Saffo, 
who flew dowm to welcome her friends, in a gown they had often 
seen, a shimmering dress of amber silk, shot with dull crimson 
wool. It became her perfectly. Saffo was always the last to be 
ready. 

” 1 have only to drape my dress,” she would say, when draping 
really meant making the whole skirt, besides trying twenty differ- 
ent ways of draping. 

It sounds so simple to ‘‘ drape a few graceful folds,” but, in fact, 
they need an immense deal of pinning, tacking, and arrangement. 

” Has Saffo draped her dress yet?” was alwaj^s the boys’ provok- 
ing question. 

Hermione tied a scarf of wdiite net round her shoulders and 
looked lovely. 

They laid the ” Last Flush of the Sunset ” in the limbo of futurity. 


ADRlAJf BRIGHT. oil 

“ Ah me!” uttered Satfo as, on seeing the hev^itdered crowd, 
she felt circumstances too many for her. 

” 1 beg your pardon?” said the elegant August is, who thought 
she was addressing him. 

But Saffo was eone. Seeing the deficiency of ace.jmmodation for 
the gentlemen, she flew to organize new measures, and rescue her 
young sister, who W’^as driven wild by the refractoriness of the herd 
under her care. 

Do come and scold them, Saffo. They will try to put their 
things on the wet paint.” 

” Come, Dick, and write me a card with ‘ wel oaint,’ in large 
letters,” said Saffo, as Dick passed in a sort of vihristy Minstrel 
costume; and she had the collection of clothing carried below. 

The door-bell went on ringing all the time, and the door opened 
and shut with almost the regularity of bello\vs. 

” I’ll come in half a jiffy,” said Dick. 

He had in tow Mr. Savage, the poet, who took neither tea nor 
coffee, but who asked for “a cup of fair water.” Dick seized a 
lea-cup and conveyed him to the scullery tap. The discomfited 
poet had to find his way up from the scullery alone. Like Alcibi- 
ades, he carried a love-bird’ in his bosom, and he had nearly lost the 
bird on his way down-stairs. The love-bird usually gave liim a 
great deal of trouble, but lie looked so charming as he stood fon- 
dling it, that it was half the making of him as a poet. His other 
affectations made up nearly the other half. 

” She is exquisite,” whispered Augustus Smith to Tom, speak- 
ing of Saffo, who indeed looked brilliant with invention and hurry 
of ” happy thoughts.” 

Tom looked proud of his sister, and thought more highly of her 
thenceforward. This was the guinea stamp. Augustus spoke lit- 
tle, but that little was important. 

The tea-room was a vision. On one side was an Arabian divan, 
where coffee was served by two of the girls in Eastern dress, aided 
by Jack and Dick, who did not object to blacken their faces and 
wear towel turbans. The deep recess on the other side of the room 
was hung with Chinese lanterns, and fitted up altogether in the Chi- 
nese style for tea, which was served by Junia and Julia, dressed in 
colors of tea-roses. Button-hole bouquets and printed programmes 
of the entertainment, drawn up as amusingly as Saffo and Flitters 
could write them, were carried by Augusta in a basket, and dis- 
tributed as the visitors left the tea-room. 

Tuis printing of programmes was a necessary measure, since the 
family had arranged entertainments in all quarters of the house, on 
the plan of the old London Polytechnic; and people could choose 
what they would care to see or hear. Otherwise, people must have 
passed the evening struggling on the staircase, and few of them 
would have seen anything at all had it not been for this subdivision 
of the guests into the various rooms; for, though the house was 
large, there was a tremendous crowd, and an unmanageable crowd 
becomes a populace, instead of a highly civilized society. ” The in- 
tellectual ancients, fond of society, not of crowds, rarely feasted 
more than nine at a time,” and this is the way to really enjoy so- 
ciety. 


ADKIAN BKIGHT. 


312 

But Satto was equal to any burden in the energetic, full blaze of 
her youth, and she enjoyed handling her troops, niarshaling her 
army. In her anthropological character Haffo was in her element 
among a crowd of human beings, all looking to her for guidance; 
as an entomologist is happy when swarmed about by buzzing flics 
and wasps and bees, whose diverse and erratic ways he delights to 
systematize. Besides, everybody played second fiddle to Saffo. She 
was the W agner of her orchestra. 

Mr. and Mrs. Bright received their friends in the drawing-room, 
where some tolerably good music was performed at intervals, and 
the guests entertained themselves with the promenade among 
Salfo’s “notions.” 

Little Flitters played a brilliant polonaise of Chopin while the 
visitors who came up in couples from the tea-room walked a few 
turns round the room under Cinderella’s skillful leading. This pol- 
onaise gave every one the opportunity of observing the decorations 
and the general taste of the arrangements before they subsided into 
seats, or examined the works of art placed for their inspection. 
Conversation became at once as animated as in a picture-gallery or 
a bazaar. 

“ What is going on up-stairs?” asked Saffo, later, of her little 
sister. 

“ Oh, the Whites have been doing their French proverb in the 
back drawing-room, but it didn’t seem to draw; and now Mr. 
Black is singing a kind of Gregorian chant, which sounds dismal 
enough, sung a brick at a time, all about some one gone to glory,” 
replied this little pessimist, “ They say it is soulful.” 

“Those are both good things fora lull,” said Saffo. “ It is a 
proper beginning, we can work up a very good crescendo -out of 
that. Every one is here by this time, so we will come up and do 
our cachuca while the boys are getting their shows ready.” Au- 
gusta’s artistic costume was a charming little Spanish dress in 
white, black, and crimson. Flitters threw a small black gauze 
shawl, embroidered in colors, over Gussie’s head, and fastened it 
with a rose. Saffo flung a gay drapery over her own dress and 
hurried up to the alcove or small third drawing-room, which was 
nearly empty and sang to her guitar the Arragonaise from “ Le 
Domino Noir.” Augusta as la helle Inez, danced the cachuca to the 
song, and played the castanets. By the time this was over, the 
shows and entertainments arranged by Cinderella and the boys were 
all under way, and the company dispersed up and down-stairs, and 
w'herever they saw a lighted doorway, or an alcove with an inscrip 
tion. There was great merriment and bustle, though some people 
could not tell what to make of it all. 

Hermione stopped a minute at the door of the “ Munchausen 
room ” on the second floor, where different ptjoplein succession told 
a story; or, as Augusta more precisely put it, “the biggest story 
thev could.” 

Jack was holding forth upon some imaginary travels of his own, 
told with an amusing air of reality. This succeeding in enchanting 
an audience, he pulled a longer bow. He was holding up one of 
the light, unbreakable yayier-macM washhand-basins, as Hermione 
came in. 




ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


31 r, 

“You all know, if you boil these,” said he, “ they will swell to 
an enormous feize, though perhaps you are not aware that the Al- 
bert Hall is roofed with one of the finest. I cooked it myself,” he 
added, modestly, “ but that is neither here nor there. 1 stewed one 
last summer, and by the holidays it had simmered to a nice use- 
ful size, so 1 gave it to a friend of mine to take abroad with him. 
He told me he never carried anything more indispensable. He used 
it dail^" as a balh, and sailed down all the rivers in it as a canoe, 
fishing for his subsistence as he went along. On land he used it as 
jin umbrella, holding it by the mast he set up to sail it with. A 
pocket-handkerchief is enough to propel it generally, but on occa- 
sions he made a paddle of Ids wooden spoon, or pulled out his tele- 
scopic knife and fork to their full length and used them as a pair of 
oars. These articles also formed poles whenever he wanted to sleep 
under it as a tent, which saved Ids hotel bills amazingly, and his 
book about it is just going into the fifteenth edition. He is now an 
amazingly rich man, and I was the origin of his fortune.” 

They applauded Jack’s tale, and ‘another young man was chosen 
to tell another and a bigger story. 

” 1 am that friend of Jack’s whose travels you have heard. I am 
that millionaire.” He bowed and concluded in a roar of laughter. 

Dick then took up the tale, and rattled on a scries of legends to 
a diorama of the Rhine, lighted by a magic-lantern. The show- 
man’s talk was interspersed with music and appropriate songs. 
This was a very popular entertainment, and was h)llowed up after- 
ward by many good stories, of which one of the most tremendous 
was a good imitation, with changes of voice, of a schoolmaster 
caning a boy, and saying, ” My boy, it pains me more than it does 
you?” But Hermione did not hear the conclusion of this story, 
which was added as the great Herr Grollenicht appeared with Lit- 
tle Flitters, and his head filled the upper part of the doorway. 

” That boy’s name was Grollenicht, little Master Grollenicht, in 
those days,” proceeded Jack, coolly. ‘‘In his earliest days he 
played on the feelings of a piano, that betrayed the nature of the 
man. He afterward became immortal;^ but, before immortality 
grew upon him, he fell madly in love with that schoolmaster’s 
daughter, and gave her up faithlessly for a flirtation with the Muses. 
The^inonster! I shudder when I think on this. The maiden died 
of a broken heart exactly forty-nine years after. This was a very 
sudden thing and as sad as it was sudden. Pardon my emotion, my 
friends. Let us trust he may, even at this late hour, repent; other- 
wise his immortality must be one great, lingering remorse, as long 
as the great sea-serpent. 

Hermione did not hear the reason for Herr Grollenicht’s great 
peal of good-natured laughter as Jack wiped his flowing tears, for 
other people were talking qn the crowded staircase, and many tags 
of conversation rose to her ear. 

‘‘Who is that pretty creature in the white embroidered China- 
crape dress?” asked one lady of another, who stood in a recess. 

“ It is that lovely jMrs. Bright.” 

‘‘ Adrian’s wife? The bride? Well, she is lovely.” 

‘‘ Have 3mu never met Iier before?” 

” Never. Is that her wedding-dress?” 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


314 

“ Yes. Isn’t it elegant? And so suitable for the wife of a sculptor. 
It drapes so exquisitely. We shall have it in the Academy next 
year.” 

” Where is her husband?” 

“ 1 don’t know. 1 saw him flirting with his cousin Linda Fraser 
some time ago.” 

” They say he is always meeting her in the museum.” 

” Ah, well, tliey are cousins, you know.” 

” iS"o, not actually cousins, I believe; only connections.” 

” Some say they once were more; old flames, I’ve understood.” 

“ They say he neglects his wife shamefully. A bride, too. 1 
canT think what men are coming to.” 

” Well, 1 can’t comprehend his neglecting this sweet young creat- 
ure for that proud, ill-tempered-looking Miss Fraser.” 

” Hush, she’ll hear.— -What a pleasant party this is. How taste- 
fullv Safifo arrange everything.— Is she gone?” 

•‘‘'Yes.” 

” 1 hope she heard nothing. Did you ever see anything like this? 
Look here. Is it not Saffo all over?” 

They moved into a room where the fireplace was actually painted 
in bright colors; with transparent blue on the bright steel molding, 
making it look like blue steel, and the painted ornaments and bosses 
of the grate looked like majolica, and were washable with a sponge, 
as Safio said. She had no wish to make a god of her fireplace, 
which, she said, absorbed the attention of the female part of the 
community, and thus she solved the great black-lead and emery^- 
\ owder difficulty by a coat of paint. 

“How thankful her parents will be to get SalTo married!” said 
ladies, who attributed to Baffo everything that they thought ” aw- 
ful.” 

” They are going to do something operatic now,” said one lady, 
looking at her programme. ‘‘ Yes, here it is 9.45. Large drawing- 
room. Scenes from Gllick’s opera, ‘ Iphigenia in Aulis.’ Iphijrenia, 
Mrs. Adrian Bright. Cljjtemnestra, Saffo. Come, and we shall get 
good places.” 

Had she not heard? Ah, what had Hermione not heard? Then 
Adrian was here, and she had seen nothing of him. He had been 
at the museum all the afternoon, and had promised to call for Linda 
and bring her to the party, as Ilermione had been asked to go early 
to Welbeck Street wilh Flitters. But wdiatof that? Surely Adrian 
might escort his cousin to a parly without disturbing her. What 
occasion had people to talk? No, she w'ould not be uneasy. Ah! 
there was Adrian at last! Her face lighted up with love. Linda 
Fraser called off his attention. Hermione’s face fell. 

“Come and sing in the Gliick scena, darling,” said Little Flit- 
ters, forcing her way out of the crowded doorway to where Iler- 
mione stood. ” This will be the success of the evening. While 
you dress for it, I shall just have time to go with Herr Grollenicht 
to see some of the boys’ diverting shows. 1 shall be down in time 
to play the accompaniments, tell Saffo. 

Hermione went to the drawing-i-oom, meeting on her passage Mr. 




ADllIAK BRIGHT. 315 

Fairfax, wildly in search of tiny Daisy Flitters, who was like a 
needle in a bottle of hay in this crowded house. 

At the foot of the second-floor staircase Dick had a kind of 
canvas tent, as a vestibule to his show-room. The entrance was 
hung with great pictures, like one sees at a menagerie in a country 
fair. 

“ AValk up, ladies and gentlemen, and see the Wonderful Twins; 
also the remarkable Cape cart, similar in principle to the one sent 
by our gallant sailor princes to their august parents. Walk up, 
ladies and gentlemen. Here is the very peculiar beast called ‘ Wal- 
lenstein’s toad.’ Here is all the fun of the fair.” 

These, and more of the like burlesque advertisements, made 
people go up and see the sporls and shows the boj’-s and their friends 
had prepared on the second floor, though the more sedate part of the 
company remained in the drawing-room, moving to what Jack 
called ” slow music.” 

The “ wonderful twins ” were Bimbo’s knees, painted with cherub 
faces and pocket-handkerchief nightcaps; the interesting Cape cart 
was Dick, doing what is called ” making a wheel-barrow ” of a 
smaller boy. Some clever boys acted a scene from Aristophanes 
that had been learned for Dick’s school speech-day; some spouted 
comic speeches, and some did conjuring tricks. Constant relays of 
visitors besieged this room, and among them Flitters and the gieat 
Herr Grollenicht seemed to be almost the best entertained. The big 
German rolled about in convulsions at Plitters’s comments on it all. 
The romping, madcap frolic of it all suited him very well. The 
professor was so satiated with stiff parties that he enjoyed the genial 
atmosphere of relaxation. The eyes of Mr. Fairfax glared upon 
him as Flitters, in the becoming new dress, chattered to him in the 
highest spirits. The great German looked most like a philosopher 
of the two at this moment, a laughing philosopher. 

At the end of the corridor was a gypsy tent with a fortune-teller, 
who prophesied Flitters’s speedy marriage with a great musician, 
and promised her a magnificent house, with a drawing-room hung 
round with violoncellos like the varnished hams in apoik-shop. 
Mr. Fairfax felt absolutely murderous toward Herr Grollenicht, 
who grinned complacently, and w'ould have gone in to hear his 
own fortune, but that lady took thefurn instead. 

” Fancy being doomed to look after young Popkins’s buttons all 
one’s best days!” said the self-supporting young lady of middle age 
to Flitters, as she emerged from the gypsy’s tent. 

Mr. Fairfax followed the ill-matched pair— no, not ill-matched, 
perhaps, since both were great musicians— into Saffo’s painted 
room, where some lively burlesque went on for a considerable time, 
interspersed with tableaux-mvants, charades, and some good fooling 
called the Palace of Truth. 

Flitters was caught here by the laughing girls, who were full of 
frolic and spirits. 

One asked her, in the simplest manner possible, 

” Do you like gafl’o’s music?” 

Her answer, as translated in the language of the Palace of Truth, 
was, 


ADRIAJ^ BRIGHT. 


316 

“ I don’t care twopence for any girl’s music, for I get the very 
best for a shilling and struggles.” 

” That is true ‘ William,’ is it not?” asked the mischievous little 
Aujrusla. 

Herr Grollenicht attempted no conversation in the Palace of 
Truth. He heard enough to warn him. 

” Where will you find another girl like Saflo Bright?” 

” Nowhere — heaven is more merciful.” 

Fairfax pressed on. Flitters to-night, in all her gayety and 
finery, reveling in her new dress with the enjoyment of a child, 
Flitters, as it were, belonging to another, charmed him to distrac- 
tion. He was madl}’’ in love, and could not keep his secret another 
hour. Yes, he would go on to the Palace of Truth; let her, let 
them all, hear the truth and welcome. He absolutely longed for 
the revelation. But they were gone already. He sought them vainly 
in the hermitage, where the most ineffable secrets were disclosed, and 
prophecies and fluctuations of the stock-exchange, and tips were 
given for the coming races. But Flitters was not there. 

Everywhere he encountered groups of smiling guests, but Little 
Flitters was lost among them like a diamond in the drift. 

The Bright’s rooms were always full on the occasion of a party; 
for. queer as everything was, and the arrangements seldom sumptu- 
ous or well carried out, people were amused, and they enjoyed 
themselves unusually much — for a party. They were expected to 
cruise all about the house, and not be pinned to a particular easy- 
chair in the drawing room for a whole evening, and the girls’ odd 
ways and their aesthetic dress caused comment. There was always 
talent, too, of one kind or another in the room; none of your regu- 
lar stuffed lions, but something that excited interest or laughter. 

And to- night w^as as much beyond the ordinary run of their parties 
as Saffo was beyond Cinderella. It was not, perhaps, so poetical 
as some of Mrs. Bright’s combinations, because to-night she left 
the whole of the up-stairs entertainment to Saffo; but it was 
more youthful, mirthful, and varied. It continued a festival 
thioughout the evening. One person only seemed harassed and 
careworn. It w^as Mr. Fairfax. The philosopher of the Wash- 
burn could not keep up his philosophic character. He was always 
darting after glimmering bits of pink, which evaded himas Will-o’- 
the-Wisp distances and deceives* his pursuers. 

‘‘I have a great mind to offer him my bull’s-eye,” said Dick, 
when the philosopher entered Flitters-hiinting into his show-room 
for the fourth time; ” then hewdll look like Diogenes looking for an 
honest man.” He strayed out on the tented leads, where a telescope 
was handy for viewing the moon’s volcanoes, and where a man 
played the cornet at intervals, and whei'e, occasionally, a few 
couples were seen twirling to the music of ” Les Yeux d’ Amour ” 
wuiltz. 

But nowhere were the magnificent professor and the laughing 
Flitters. 

In simple fact, they had gone down to the drawing room, where 
Flitters, concealed behind a large screen, painted with Ionic col- 
umns, and a Grecian landscaj^e, was to play the accompaniments to 
the Gluck scenas. 


ADRIAN" DKIGHT. 


317 

Herr Grollenicht, who wanted to hear Herniione sine;, secured a 
vantage point behind the curtain which hid them both from th. ir 
pursuer. 

Tlie scene was where Iphigenia, though gladly welcomed by tlie 
Greeks on her arrival in Aulis, is startled at hearing that Achilles is 
faitiiless to her. 

Heimione, as Iphigenia, wore a large, white gauze veil, thrown 
over her white dress. She looked the ideal of a Greek maiden 
while her ravishing voice enraptured the audience as she sang the 
andante. 

“ The welcome this people prepareth. 

Is it this that chiefly I prize? 

Alas ! to my fond, longing eyes, 

Achilles never appeareth. Alasl never appeareth.” 

She seats herself on a bank shaded by oleanders, near a Grecian 
tripod, while the passepied and gavotte are danced by May and 
Julia as Greek maidens with garlands of roses. The twins bear 
across the stage, on a pole between them, a great basket of flowers. 
The air is tilled with rumors. The music lends itself most exj ress- 
ively to the idea of whispered falsity. The short ballet over Iphi- 
genia declaims in a recitative of thrilling pathos: 

“ Have I heard it aright? Great gods, can I believe it? That, 
forgetting all that he vowed, Achilles, in despite of his honor, in de- 
spite of his love, will break his troth with me?” 

A pathos and energy hitherto unconjectured of her gave a power 
and reality to Herniione’s acting that lifted it to the domain of trag- 
edy. There was a sharp ring of actual pain in her voice as she 
sang the rapid passage, 

“ Thou traitor, thou darest betray,” 
that follows the sweet, slow movement: 

“ Alas ! my heart, so fond and tender, 

All too oft for this youth affection has reveal’d. 

My duty and his fame unto love bade me yield, 

And, obeying their call, to love I made surrender.” 

There was a wildness in her eye as she sang the swift allegro, 
which the spectators thought was the perfection of acted emotion. 
But was it acting at all? 

Adrian was astonished; so w^as Linda Fraser, who never gave her 
cousin credit for any power or depth of feeling. 

The sorrow with which she reverted to the sweet andante strain 
touched the softer among the audience to tears. 

“ Ah, how he loved my heart is still recalling. 

For it is hard to ’et him go, 

Oh, what grief! from my eyes I feel the tears are falling, 

Oh ! that because of scorn, because of scorn, these bitter tears must flow.” 

But again she checks herself, and proudly tones out the allegro, 
and leaves the stage swiftly and palpitating— fearful of having be- 
trayed too much real feeling, and yet gladdened by the encourage- 
ment in Adrian’s admiring gaze into the hope that the whispers she, 
in her own character, had heard were groundless as the mythic talc 
itself. Linda, too, was engaged in talking to Lord Palairet. 


318 


ADRIAN- BRIGHT. 


Saffo embraced Hermioue witU fervor. 

“ What an actress you are! 1 had no idea it was in you, darling. 
]My part will pale into faded nothingness after that.” She had 
reckoned upon Hermione’s interpreting the part as of a sweet, soft, 
self-sacrificing Iphigenia. 

But Safto, with her gleaming emerald eyes, and full-coloreil scar- 
let drapery folded round her shimmering shot dress (of terra cotta 
artfully mingled with daffodil yellow), could never seem faded. She 
glowed like a flame as the fierce, vindictive Clytemnestra. Amid a 
storm of applause, led hy Herr Grollenicht, they entered the scene 
together, the white and flaming figures; the background draped with 
black thrown over the screen of Ionic columns. Iphigenia takes 
leave of her mother and departs for the sacrifice, Clytetnnestra 
swoons with woe, and then, slowly rising, describes the scene of the 
fatal rite with frightful insistence. She hurls the fury of a bereaved 
mother on the Greeks for the sacrifice of her daughtei, and invokes 
the vengeance of the gods upon their army and their ships. 

” And thou, O sun, and thou, who in this distant country didst 
acknowledge the son, sprang of a truth from Atreus. Thou, thou, 
who to light the feast of the sire didst not dare. Depart thou, de- 
part thou, and give no light to ttiis day of despair. Mighty Jove, 
cast forth thy lightning. Yea, cast forth thy lightning, that when 
it shall flash around, the Greeks may be burned to ashes, and in their 
ships sunk and drowned.” 

The curtains closed to the sound of the Grecian hymn in solemn 
chorale. 

” Almighty gods, give ear! This people now defend.” 

It was an admirable entertainment.” Saffo, with her French train- 
ing and classic sympathies, enjoyed Gluck’s music; which so per- 
fectly represents the Greek heroic history from the French point of 
view. 


” And yet with glorious harmonies and melodic effects such as no 
tru(;-born Frenchman could ever have attained,” said Herr Gh’ollc- 
nicht, standing up for his nation. 

” AYhat do you say of Berlioz and of Gounod then?” asked Saffo, 
quickly; and really the German had no word to reply. 

” The French took the Greek idea and developed it, as they took 
the Gothic forms of architecture and perfected them.” Saffo 
placed the French above all the other disciples of culture. 

Flitters played the difficult accompaniments with spirit and pre- 
cision, and, as she said, the result was a trophy of their work, for it 
had taken much practice and many rehearsals before they could get 
it perfect. 

‘‘I must talk to those bootiful young womans,” said Herr Grolle 
nicht, laughing, ” and secure them for my stage in Berlin.” 

But they were gone. Saffo was already busy about something 
else for her guests; and Flitters, in a recess, was telling llerrnione 
of the comfort it was to her to be able to exercise herself at the piano 
"without fear of entailing needlework upon next day. 

” 1 never felt so comfortable in a dre«s before. I am quite come 
round to Saffo’s opinion that one must be able to fling up one’s arms 
to say, ‘ Merciful Zeus!’ in a well-fitting gown. Here comes Mr. 



ADRIAN- r.RTOHT. 310 

Adrian to praise me,” said Flitters. ” I think I will withdraw for 
modesty ’-s sake.” 

Adrian was deliehted with tlie play. He took his young wife’s 
hand and led her to a window apart from the throng. She looked 
like a chrys-elephautine statue, as she stood with the ra^' of moon 
light falling on her fair hair and ivory neck. 

“ 1 thought you w^ere only a loving, "beautiful woman, and 1 sec 
you are a true artist as well;” and Hermionehad nothing to say for 
very gladness, but her sweet eyes gazed up at him, full of love and 
trust. He stooped and imprinted a kiss on her beautiful forehead. 

” Hermione, in her gleaming white dress, makes me think of 
pearls,” whispered Cinderella to her inother. ” How beautiful she 
looks to-niffht.” And it was so. Young, graceful, loving, and a 
genius, Hermione was the emblem of all that heaven and earth make 
happy. Hermione was not really dramatic, but idyllic; nor was she 
always talkative, nor merry. Silent in general company, or while 
traveling, absorbing all— then a stream flowed forth in her intimate 
circle, bubble, bubble, full of jokes and quips and turns of talk, 
playing with the words, tossing about the ideas. These careless 
bursts were rarer now with her. Adrian often recalled his young 
wife’s look irr those girlish days in Yorkshire, when she was so 
charmingly variable, like an April sky. Of late she had been stilled 
into a sadder matron calmness. Often, as he looked at her sweet 
face quieted into the lines of patience, he longed for the youth now 
past. Pie did not know that it depended upon himself to bring to 
that speaking countenance a more beautiful expression than ever it 
had worn, to bring back all the joy and add to it the heavenliness of 
answered love. Now she was radiant, and both were intensely 
happy. Linda was still occupied with Lord Palairet. But in tlie 
hustle of a night like this, the married lovers could not be left alone 
together long. 

” Saflo lets every one else enjoy themselves to perfection, bid not 
we,” said Adrian, ruefully, as they were borne off to take a part in 
the minuet that was to be danced in the great drawing-room to the 
music of the blind boy, Demetrius Corry’s, violin, played exquisitely 
with the muted strings. 

True, the library was cleared for dancing of an ordinary sort, the 
mill-wheel form of dancing for the twirling dervishes of society. 
But here was something higher; the poetry, and not the mechanism, 
of motion. Saffo, with her dithyrambic genms, full of wild trans- 
port, could not care for the commonplace drill of waltz and lancers. 

” It is aflne fault, that excess of fervor,” as Adrian often said, when 
Linda carpingly criticised her moods and ways. The elegant dance 
over, Saffo said, 

” That is beautiful, and refreshing as it is to an Eastern effendi to 
watch the dancing of the almeh and the bayaderes; but wait a short 
while and I will give you something better still.” 

She made her preparations and spoke to Eulalia Corry, the grace- 
ful, Spauish-looking sister of the blind boy who had played. She 
went away to make some slight alterations to her dress, and, while 
she was gone, Demetrius Corry recited a well-translated carmen of 
Horace, with such keen point and finisli, that people from all parts 
of the three drawing-rooms pressed forward to hear and see. By 


320 


ADRIAN RRIGITT. 


this time RafTo had improvised an exquisite picture. She drew aside 
a curtain, cafchiiig it up iu a careless festoon, and let the moonlight 
stream along the floor, and glint upon a grove of ficus plants, 
abutilons, and chrysanthemums arranged about the window, trailed 
with Virginia-creeper, red with the first touch of winter. She had 
turned out the lights in this smaller drawing-room, and seated her- 
self half in shadow on a heap of cushions by a bowl of scented tube- 
roses. She took her guitar, and thrummed a seguidilla, and the 
spectators assembling saw the graceful form of Eulalia Corry, a 
(lark-haired girl, with lithe figure, Spanish eyes, and Andalusian in- 
step, dancing a shawl dance in the moonlight. The effect was ex- 
quisite. The moon-ray streaming on her figure, as the lime-light 
does on the first dancer on the stage, gave a statuesque grace to her 
slow, gliding movements in the first steps of the dance, as her bare 
arms caught the moonlight on their upraised curves. The dam^e 
quickened, and the white arms glanced like phosphorescence on the 
sea. It was a delicious spectacle. Indeed, throughout the evening, 
Safifo rose from poetry to still lovelier poetry, carrying Jier friends 
awa}'^ with the charms of her invention 

It was ever thus with Saffo; her own fervid soul imbued all she 
touched. 

“ E’en soulless things her feeling caught, 

And forth a new creation sprahg.” 

Let Thought wed Work, which is a fact, its children will be Con- 
tent, Plenty, Leisure, Grace, and Poetry. The marriage of thought 
aid thought, or work and work, are within the prohibited degrees. 

“ I wish Mr. Carron had been here to see that lovely dance," said 
Flitters to Hermione. You must describe it to him." 

He was invited tathe party, but feared to come. The sight and 
hearing of Linda Fraser in all her glory would have been too much 
for his peace. 

" The loveliest things in creation are sunrise and moonlight,” said 
IVtr. Fairfax, quoting a poetical writer. " Who has lime, in our 
stupid life, that is called pleasure, to see either of them? AYere we 
truly cultured we should not shut out the loveliest aspects of creation 
as we do, the sunset and the moonrise. AVe draw down the blinds 
when our parties begin, whereas we should call iu the beautiful 
effects of moonlight, as Miss Baffo does, to heighten our pleasure, 
and not weary ourselves by seeking a substitute.” 

" It is in such profitless toil the world wastes so much time and 
care,” said Saffo, as she put aside her guitar and entered into the 
talk. 

"Forgetful of the principle of primary movement, eh, Saffo?” 
said Flitters, archly. 

" You are perfectly right,” said Saffo, seriously, as she passed on. 

" They work the moon pretty hard here,” said Flitters, reducing 
Mr. Fairfax’s poetry to practice in her unconcerned way. " 1 8ui> 
pose they call it ‘ utilizing the raw material ’ and saving the gas." 

" By tlie time the moon rises the day’s work is over,” said the 
philosopher, and he was going on to explain that the heavens were 
then clear, even in London. 

" Ah, I see,” she interrupted. " When the cookery is done, then 
the smoke-abatement principle has its fling.” 


ADETAN" BRIGHT. 


821 


I think a young man standing near her was glad that the supper 
preparations had been made before people turned their attention en- 
tirely to atmospheric purity. They could talk of ^\'orldly things 
comfortably under cover of a masterpiece being performed by Herr 
Grollenicht; a sort of moonlight sonata of his own, with strongly 
accentuated passages like shooting-stars. His worshipers were feed- 
ing their souls upon him. To Flitters he was an everyday dinner, 
so she kept her wits about her, and studied human nature, which 
was beginning to manifest itself in many directions. Light con- 
versation became general on the staircases. People felt something 
to be infipendiug. 

“ I don’t think we are going to have any supper,” murmured a 
disconsolate landing-lounger. “The tea-room is only spread for 
refreshments. 1 have been cruising all about, and can see no sup- 
per-room an 3 ’^where.” 

Cinderella passed him with Mr. Bright, who had come up to look 
for the principal lady-guest of tlie evening, the Countess of Lisle, 
to take her down to supper. For there was to be supper, though it 
had played at hide-and-seek with the landing-lounger. 

” What a lot of chrysanthemums you have about here. Miss Lu- 
cinda,” said the young man, fearing ’Bella had heard his remark 
about their prospects. 

” Yes, they are papa’s favorite flowers.” 

” Of what is the chrysanthemum the symbol?” asked ]\Ir. Grubb, 
a lanky yontb accredited with many gifts, who had, up to a certain 
age, still called youth, done nothing to indorse the public o])inion 
of his talents, though he seemed always on the point of beginning. 
” Is it a star?” 

” There are so few flowers at this time of the year,” said ’Bella, 
simply. 

” It is the sanitarian’s flower,” said Mr. Bright, stopping his 
course for a moment, unable to resist explaining Ids theory. “ It 
blooms in the London fogs, and I believe it corrects their noxious 
influence within its little range. If gathered, the water it is placed 
in remains always sweet.” He moved on quickly to where Lady 
Lisle sat by the piano. 

” Where is mamma?” said Cinderella to Friol, who came up with 
lamps for the small dra\N'iug-room, and to relight the gas. 

” She have gave his harm to milord the Hairle, mees. They is 
gone to lake some ravishment,” (refreshment). Friol’s genders did 
not follow the pronouns. 

Lord Palairet look down Lad}' Glory Amedroz. Sir Gilbert 
(B.A.) tried to take Ilerrnione, but he wuis soon otherwise paired off 
by Cinderella, who, as Flitters said, skillfully marshaled the ladies 
by their stoutness and the gentlemen by their leanness— the leanest 
and shabbiest men being of highest rank. 

” Those who have but one dress-suit take care of it, and don’t let 
it get shabby; see what care I took of my old-gold frock.” 

Before it came to Flitters’s turn to be taken down to supper, she 
found many a good story to tell Walter Carron next day to amuse 
him. As Dick Bright said, ‘‘ A story passed through Daisy Flitters 
always improves. It goes in meat, and comes out sausages.” And 
11 


322 ADRIAN BRIGHT. 

sausages are the most piquant. Many people besides Dick relish a 
story most that way. 

“It is a pity to shut out the moonlight,’* said Hermione, who 
stayed up to help the girls entertain their younger friends while the 
elders were having supper. 

“ Our one piece of family silver,” said ’Rella, as the moon broke 
from a lloating cloud near Adrian’s tinial. 

“ The one bit of family plate belopging to the universe,” said a 
lawyer, putting in his claim for fear of futui’e prejudice. 

“ Chaste Dian has vanquished Phoebus,” said Mr. Grubb, quot- 
ing an original poem. 

“ Do, for goodness’ sake! tell me who Phoebus is,” cried Flitters, 
“ he is always coming in my songs.” 

May knew, and explained the family history of Phoebus. Music 
and conversation still went on in the drawing-room. A sensation 
was made by a genius, tall and loug-liaired, striding across the room 
like a— 

“ Reall}^ quite like a sky-rocket, you know,” said one startled 
lad 3 ^ He dropped at last by the piano, dashed about his long arms 
high and low, in the fashion of a genius, up and down and all 
across, and sang staccato, “ Ha! I’m sure I’ve been in love! 'Three 
whole days together!” and away he darted, alter the song, more 
like a fireworh than ever, and was lost in space. 

“ What was that he sang?” asked an old gentleman, hard of hear- 
ing, “ That he has been married ten times already?” But we must 
hark back ten minutes or so. 

“ How delightful that distant music is,” murmured the gifted 
Grubb, in his poetic character, to Flitters. He was generally gift- 
ed, so generally that he did not confine himself to any particular 
talent. He meandered on the piano in the dreamy style, and talked 
of art and poetry with any one whom he could get to listen. “ The 
piano is so well adapted for sweet human converse.” 

“ So it is,” said the practical Flitters. “ People talk so easily 
while it is going on.” 

“ I was alluding to intervals in our life when we would refrain 
from the higher forms of symphonic emotion.” 

“Drat the philosophers, they are always buzzing round me,” 
thought Flitters, watching for an opening to escape by. 

“ You received my humble tribute of verse, I trust. Miss Flit- 
ters,” pursued the gifted Grubb, His name was really Grubb, 
though he softened it off as much as possible into Groube, and 
hinted at de Groube. 

“ Oh, yes. I shall show the pretty poem to all my friends.” 

“ Oh, pray don’t,” said he, modestly. 

“Oh, yes, I shall.” 

“ Reall}^ no. If you do, all the young ladies will be asking me 
to write them poems, and then I shall have so much trouble.” 

His sister interposed. 

“ It is very good for my brother to write verses,” said the prosaic 
Miss Grubb. “ He ought to write a great many to keep his hand 
in.” He flashed a lightning at her; she was undismayed. “1 
always tell him so, when he alters the names in his verses before 


ADRIAIT BRIGHT. 323 

sending them to some one else.” His family had brought him up 
with a view to his ultimately making a fortune as a poet. 

“Now for my happy release,” thought Flitters, as Mr. Savage 
came toward them. “ Let me make you two poets acquainted; you 
should be friends, being brothers.” 

“ fl’m,” grunted Mr. Savage. 

“ Ahem!” ejaculated the gifted one. Both bowed sternly as she 
bid them discourse. 

“ A hungry poet is an angry poet,” thought Flitters 

The poets were not the only genii who had been misunderstood 
that evening. Linda Fraser’s recitation had been put oR to too late 
an hour, and Lord Palairet had gone away with Lady Glory In tnc 
midst of it; and IMr. Fairfax had no opportunity of manifesting his 
superiority to Ilerr Grollenicht. It is impossible to find an opening 
for everybody. Even when they all went down to supper, the 
hungry landing-lounger, who had evidently never seen trufPed tur- 
key before, said, 

“All this time I’ve been eating nothing but stuffing. It seems 
all stuffing. I should like a little'’turkey now. I never saw such a 
funny spotted turkey in my life.” 

But most people ^were pleased. The supper was more original 
than all the rest of the entertainment. The kitchen was turned" into 
a grill-room, where a white-capped man dished up incessantly the 
most appetizing little broils, served on a narrow table running 
round three sides of the room. In the center was a stand, a throne 
for the vintage graces. Port, Sherry, and Claret, A gay eastern 
curtain, hung from ceiling to floor, served to screen the fire. 

The breakffist-room was a cool supper-room for ices, sweets, and 
American iced beverages. The butler’s pantry was turned into an 
oyster bar, with stands for bottled porter. The yard was tented in 
with an Indian tent, and held a long buffet of champagne coolers, 
fruit, cakes, and flowers. At the further end of the yard stood a 
life-sized figure of Pomona (a cast from Adrian’s collection), draped 
in white, within a bower of crimson creepers and vines heavy with 
grapes, surrounded by melons, bananas, and pomegranates, and a 
harvest of dried fruits mingled in tasteful arrangement with eggs, 
and crimson pimento, and strange gourds. 

Baskets of grapes, apples, nuts, and every fruit of autumn were 
finely grouped and clustered round in pictures, recalling Van iluy- 
sum and our Lance; and wines from many vineyards paid their 
court to Pomona. Baskets of mint, with acanthus leaves also com- 
ing fhrough the wicker bars, and growing orange-trees and bays, 
scented the air deliciously. 

All the service of the establishment, including the hired waiters, 
was at work in the refreshment department, which was very well 
managed, under Mr. Bright’s personal superintendence, and went 
smooriil}'- on, notwithstanding the crush. 

“The Brights won’t get their house in order for a week after 
this,” reflecte<l experienced party-givers. 

Supper over, the flute and cornet flew to arms and led the way up 
stairs; where, the room having been set in order, it felt beautifully 
cool and soothing after the revelry. The call was for more singing. 

“ You must sing to the myrtle, in the Greek fashion,” said SalTo, 


324 ADRIAN BRIGHT. 

holding out a myrtle branch to Mr. Savage, who was a singer as 
well as poet. 

Taking his love-bird upon his shoulder, he shook his “ hya- 
cinlhine ” locks, and gazed with a look of ecstasy around for a 
source of inspiration. He hit upon one soon. 

" 1 will sing to your golden lily, rather,” and he took up Salto’s 
guitar and improvised a pleasing song, to which the music quick- 
ened and lengthened in a kind of chant to suit the varying meter; 
each verse ending in a melodious cadence, to which he gave expres- 
sion by his voice and manner. 

The younger ladies were transfixed, ” breathless with adoration,” 
as they bent forward in every graceful attitude to catch the words, 
as they passed the ear among the musical ripples. The song was 
something to this effect. Honey-sweet it seemed, rather than valu- 
able for deep thought; but then the verses could not be caught in 
their entirety as they ifiew along. ‘‘Winged their flight from his 
to their receptive souls,” as he lusciously expressed it. 

He began by apostrophizing the lily, remarkable for blooming so 
late in autumn. 

“ Crisp«>id leaves and bending stem. 

Anthers !-icli and golden ray. 

Still thy blossoms catch the hue 
Of gladness from departing day. 

Nor is thy waning bloom less fair, 

But valued more because so rare.” 

“Consummate,” murmured the maidens, “ether itself is not 
more ethereal.” 

“ O, lily of the golden ray ! 

No blossom thou of summer pride. 

But glory of this festal day 
In tranquil All-Saints’ summer-tide.” 

“ How infinitely soothing,” sighed the audience, as the poet pre- 
luded about among various ideas for a third verse. “ Divine, 
divine, again that fragrant line.” 

“That is a good-natured way the after-supper public have of 
helping a lame poet over a line,” said Flitters to the faithful Fair 
fax. “ But list, oh list, again; 1 am making you lose what I can 
never replace,” 


” The ‘ something or other ’ feast may last an hour. 

An hour of joy, an hour too brief, 

To them ’tis but one lily flower. 

In fields of bliss beyond belief.” 

“ Ah me!” came several times into the song, to fill up the gaps. 
It closed amid much rapture with some musical lines ending, 

” To draw the veil I do not dare, I do not dare,” 

the last stanza concluding with 

That joy of theirs we may not share, we may not share.” 

“ Unutterably lovely! How infinitely exquisite!” and such-like 
were the sighs of rapture that filled the room with their soft incense. 
And Mr. Grubb had written things ever so much better than this, 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


325 

and nobody gave him any flattery at all. What injustice! It was 
all owing to that brute of a love-bird, and the wretched man’s ab- 
surd affectations. Why could not Savage wear a collar and tie like 
other people? Poets as good as himself went about like hotel wait- 
ers; was he a duke among poets? “ A fig for his twelve editions, 
on torn-edged paper; each leaf the eighth of an inch thick.” 

Saffo held yet one entertainment in reserve. People were called 
into the darkened drawing-room, where the rout seats were ranged 
in close lines for the grand tableau. 

The duet betvseen Helen of Troy and Pantalis, inEoito’s “ Mefis- 
tofele,” was sung by concealed singers. The music ceased, and 
some lines of Tennyson’s ” Dream of Fair Women ” were spoken. 
Then a blaze of white fire was lighted, and Linda Fraser stood in 
the center of the stage draped as Helen of Troy. She recited the lines 
of Helen where slie says, 

“ Where'er I came, I brought calamity. 

Many drew, swords and died.” 

She spoke tliem admirably and with immense effect. Then 
Saffo, as Iphigenia. took the prominent place, ami spoke lier verses 
with passionate pathos. The light went out, all but the glimmer- 
ing of the few veiled lamps. A crimson Bengal fiio began to burn, 
and dark blue curtains were drawn back. The two former speakers 
stood aside and motionless, and the beautiful dark-eyed Eulalia 
Corry, blazing with gold and color, appeared as Cleopatra, seated 
on a flowery bank, surrounded by palms and tropical plants show 
ing black against the glowing light. She acted with wild and 
varied vivacity the part of the dazzling Egyptian , queen. The fire 
was changed to blue and Stygian green as she showed the aspic’s 
bite, and a purple tinge as she “ died a queen,” and then the colors 
passed away, leaving only a faint flicker of light that shot up here 
and there in yello\s flame, with a smell of incense. Then music 
sounded, and a sweet voice in the distance sang, from ” Judas Mac- 
cabaeus,” 

“ Hail, hail, Judea, happy land ’ 

Salvation prospers in his hand.” 

A pure white flame burned, and Hermione, as Jephthah’s 
daughter, wearing a wreath of rosemary bound with a silver ribbon, 
moved across the stage singing. She stopped and spoke Tennyson’s 
beautiful heroic verses, and passed away singing of “ blessed Israel ” 
in Handel’s exquisite melody. She acted her part with deep ex- 
pression and poetic feeling, especially in the final burst of trium- 
phant song. This was a beautiful scene; so was it all, indeed, but 
this was deeply touching, and finely planned and acted. 

Another pause, and ’Bella, as Fair Rosamond, came droopingly 
forward and sank shuddering on the ground, her long fair hair cov- 
ering her entirely as she bent down. Her hair was abundant, but 
fairer and more golden than her mother’s. A crimson fire again 
revealed Cleopatra, who spoke to her in pitying contempt, and then 
Joan of Arc was seen clasping her banner and the sacred sword, 
standing b( fore a curtain which lifted like a tent, and showed 
Eleanor of Castile and other distant, dreamy figures, and the palmy 
foreground was Palestine. 


326 


ADRIAN" BRIGHT, 


The piano and the cornet and violin rang out martial music, and 
the piece was over, and so was the evening party. The carriages 
were standing in long lines all up the street, and the leave-takings 
were affecting. Every one poured forth a sentiment or a toast. The 
ladies sought their bower, the gentlemen repeated a visit to the 
oyster bar while in search of their overcoats. Augusta again stood 
on guard at her painted chest, getting all manner of sweet things 
said to her, which she was nothing loath to hear, and as quick to 
reply to. 

“ She’s a dear creature, that Saffo,” said Flitters, as she went 
home with Linda in the same fly with Adrian and Hermione. 
“ Her hand is her only vice, she wrung the rings into me at part- 
ing.” 

“ I was not the only person who visited the Palace of Truth,” 
thought Hermione; “ but where did Daisy Flitters get the rings she 
is so proud of?” Others besides Hermione wondered what was 
the secret of Daisy Flitters’s rings. 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

“Poetry is literature from above.”— Ciiateaubriakd. 

Mrs. Nugent was sitting in the Rose-du-Barry drawing-room at 
Maida Vale, contemplating the rose-wreaths of the golden-legged 
fender-stool, the Bohemian glass lusters of pale pink ground set off 
with crystal pendants, and the alabaster clock under a glass shade. 
How diflicult it was to wind that clock, by the way, the glass shade 
being so impossible to move to a place of safety. Of course there 
was no room for it among the bindings and the knicknacks dis- 
played on the nearest firm table. But then, as Mrs. Nugent sagely 
said, “ If you have the clocks wound by contract, the man takes 
the risk.” Clocks are always supposed to be out of oraer, because 
housemaids stop them in dusting and put them on by guess. 

Adrian’s mother-in-law was becomingly dressed, and satisfied 
with herself and the bridal appearance of her surroundings. All 
would have been well, had Adrian been a barrister or— In short, 
anything but what he was. 

She thought, only she was loo refined to put the thought into 
words, one might as well be a washerwoman as have one’s hands 
always dabbling in wet clay. Horrible business! So indelicate, 
besides. 

A carriage drove up to the door: she could see it from where she 
sat. Mrs. Nugent never looked out of window. How many people 
pride themselves on what they never do, as if it Wjere a feat. It 
would have been beneath her to stare out of window; but none the 
less was she charmed to see a handsome landau and pair of bays, 
and. oh, Joy! an earl’s coronet on the panels. 

The perfect parlor-maid was at the door on the instant, and ]\lrs. 
Nugent prepared herself to show a countess that some members of 
the family were people coimne il faut, when Adrian’s voice was 
heard, in talk with the ladies. He was crossing the hall at the 
moment they drove up, and he called Hermoine to come and see 
Lady Glorvina and Lady Lisle. 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


827 

What was he about, that they delayed entering the drawinc:- 
room? Fancy Mrs. Nugent’s astonishment and disgust when he 
actually led the ladies through the kitchen to the wash-house, where 
he was modeling a statuette, having permitted himself to introduce 
therein a mass of clay, and set up up his wires on the copper, even 
wliile Mrs. Nugent vas in the house! 

“ This passes everything. My daughter will soon have no posi- 
tion at all.” 

A countess in the wash-house! The pink drawing-room neg- 
lected! Mrs. Nugent, was extremely angry, but she soon had to 
smooth her rufhed brow, for a rustling of silks and rippling of chat- 
ter were heard outside. The countess came out of the wash-house 
in raptures. The Alceste was perfect. The countess had well-nigh 
carried it off then and there But it was a statuette, and she liad to 
be reminded that she wanted a life-sized figure for her recess. She 
w'ished to have the same idea repeated in lite-size, without the 
slightest alteration; an actual replica. 

The countess of Lisle was Lady Glory. Amedore’s sister-in law, 
herself a bride, wdio had lately brought city coffers to furnish the 
empty halls of the poor Irish peer, and who now wanted to fill those 
halls w’ith beauty. As they could not carry off the statue, they 
must needs try to make a prize ot Rermione, as lovely as any statue, 
and bear her off in triumph to an afternoon party at Lady Glor- 
viua’s house. Adrian insisted on her going with them. He had 
noticed with concern his young wife’s paling cheek and anxious 
look, and was convinced that she felt moped and lonely. He would 
wait upon mamma himself, and take her out anywhere she liked, or 
stay with her at home. Besides, Linda Fraser w^as coming by and 
by, and she would replace Hermoine with Mrs. Nugent while her 
daughter was away. 

Reluctantly, Hermione let herself be persuaded to go with Lady 
Glory, and she took the ladies into the drawing- room to see her 
mother, and to wait wiiile she put on her things. Lady Glorvina 
remembered Mrs. Nugent. 

” I must run off with your dear daughter,” she said. Then, 
while the countess w’as in tide of talk with Adrian and Mrs. 
Nugent, Lady Glory rattled on with her lively Irish quickness to 
Hermione. ” You will meet Cinderella at my house, and Saffo loo, 
if she is back in time from goodness knows where.” 

Hermione was quickly dressed and read}" to go with the ladies. 

” Good-by, my darling,” whispered Adrian pressing her hand as 
lie helped her into the carriage. ” I will take good care of mamma. 

1 w"as going 1o the museum to help Linda with her Ilyssus, but I 
will stay at home instead, and explain it all when she comes here 
this afternoon.” 

Hermione w’^as relieved by his frankness, and determined not to let 
other people’s vague suspicions make her unjust to him she loved so 
w’^ell, and who loved her as devotedly as ever, she was assured. She 
enjoyed the party, and came back to Welbeck Street with Cinderella, 
wiien at length the hospitable Amedrozes would let them go. Saffo 
had never appeared, but her w'ays were known to be unaccountable, 
and when Hermione and ’Rella arrived at the Bright’s there was 
Saffo sitting with the younger girls, all in drooping attitudes of 


328 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


sympathy round their -withered cobcea scandens plant; and the 
ticus with the bloom of dust upon its leaves. 

“ It looks like a vegetable tragedy, does it not?” asked Raffo, but 
she was evidently out of her usual spirits and disinclined to talk, so 
she left to Cinderella the light burden of the lively tale to JMrs. 
Bright, who now appeared, and Cinderella, repressed all the after- 
noon by the trammels of her youth and inexperience, no\V poured 
forth in full tide all her buried reflections of the day. It is aston- 
ishing how a girl can talk when she is not afraid of her elders and 
betters. 

” I could really give up tragedies, and be a painter, for the sake 
of the dear, delightful, aesthetic studio,” said Cinderella, raptur- 
ously. 

” 1 fear that we artists put too much of our mind and fancy into 
our studio decorations,” said Mrs. Bright, ” and those ‘ dear, delight- 
ful, aesthetic ’ receptions, when our pictures are on view, to leave 
enough to give weight to our paintings.” 

” Luxury, rose-lighted and softly cushioned, helps some painters’ 
or describers’ powers, as the decoration of a stage-play aids its 
effect,” said Saffo, trying to rouse herself from her reverie. ‘‘ But 
a Milton is blind, a Siddons and a Kemble want no accessories, 
being themselves the embodiment of their ideal. Tuiuer lived in a 
poor Chelsea lodging; our young artists need, for their quaint, 
graceful fancies, a Queen Anne house in Chelsea lledivivus. ” 

She relapsed into silence, as if she had talked herself out. 

“ Though, after all,” said Cinderella, ” one sees the most fascin- 
ating of pictures in rich artists’ houses. The painter himself, with 
his velvet coat and exquisitely disarranged hair, the background and 
accessories all perfectly composed and admirably lighted, and gush- 
ing enthusiasts grouped round him in graceful attitudes, wearing 
school-of-art gowns, which are really endurable on such occasions.” 
8he glanced at Saffo, who was still absorbed, apparently, in con- 
templation of the coboea. ‘ ‘ Looking upon them as fancy costumes, 
they are as suitable as red hair to the time and place,” added 
’Rella, trying to spur Saffo up; but, failing this, she continued to 
her auditors. “ Sometiires they gather round a lady, of whose voice 
nothing but the cultivation remains, and this has had the linked 
sweetness long drawn out of it, as she sways dreamily before an 
ancient harpsichord, like herself, a thing of wires and thinness in 
an ornamental casing.” Hermione looked amused and half-shocked ; 
they had seen such a spectacle that self-same afternoon. ” A young 
man with long, weaving locks strikes an attitude, and, leariug his 
head on his palm pivoted bn his elbow, turns on her the full fervor 
of his enraptured gaze. There is really very little else to see, - 
nothing to hear, but he looks like a seraph, or like syrup, as the top 
light fails on his golden hair and delicate cheek-bone. Another 
lady, -w'hose portrait is being painted in the attitude of a muse, 
seems bent upon keeping up the character. She has put her soul 
on to be painted in.” 

” Cinderella, a satirist at seventeen, will be a slanderer at 
seventy,” said her mother, gravely. 

‘‘Uh, mother, all the rest is beautiful. We must have some con- 
trast. Hermione looked like a lily in the throng. Sir Gilbert saw 


ADRIAI^ BRIGHT. 


321) 


in her liis principal figure at once, and brought her well forward. 

1 stood near her, like her lady-in- waitins^—or a soiibrette. Men, as 
you know, are only of use as shadows in the picture. They nat- 
urally keep in dark corners, unless they have good, straight, or 
characteristic noses, and Titian-trimmed beards, then they may 
hover beside tea-rose-pink dresses just to hand Nankin-blue tea- 
cups, or serve cakelets with apostle spoons. An elderly artist in a 
rich brown velvet coat, or an author with shaggy or venerable hair 
it hardly matters which, a skull-cap and a dark coat with clasps, 
may take his turn occasionally under the Rembrandt light; but a 
fashionable young man must beware to let nothing of himself be 
seen but the gardenia at his button-hole, and even that should bloom, 
like the violet, in the shade. Luckily, young men do not abound 
at these aesthetic parties, or the tones of the picture would be 
ruined.” Cinderella paused, wondering that Saffo had let her run 
on so long. Mrs. Bright thought that probably high tragedy was 
not Cinderella’s line after all. 

‘‘ We shall all be dreadfully afraid of ’Rella when she comes out, 
said Hermione, as she was preparing to go away, ” Who would 
have thought she was such a terrible satirist? said she, laughing.” 

“ I will see you home, Hermione,” said Mr. Bright, now coming ' 
in with his tail, that is, Augusta and Bambino, who asked for 
Ad-li-an, and v.-heu he was coming to the stud-lio again? Then 
Hermione told about the large Aiceste that was commissioned by 
Lady Lisle, and how Adrian would no longer be working in the 
pretty little scullery studio at home, but would have to come daily 
to Welbeck Street and busy himself with his fame only. Saffo 
turned on her a compassionate glance; Mrs. Bright pressed her 
hand, and told her she too must come there daily, and establish her- 
self with some large piece of work that would occupy about as long 
a time as the sculpture of the life-sized statue, so that she would be 
at all times ready to help Adrian by sitting to him, and yet not be 
wearied herself by want of occupation. 

Hermione thanked her aunt kindly and departed with Mr. Bright. 

“ What is the matter, my Saffo?” asked Mrs. Bright. ‘‘Have 
you a headache, that you are so unlike yourself?” 

‘‘No, dear mother, 1 have only something to think about. I had 
rather not tell it to you just yet. I will go up stairs and draw up 
my prospectus.” 

*Mra, Bright looked after her uneasily. There was evidently some- 
thing out of gear. But then it might be a scheme upset, some 
notions on the wholesale deportation of women may have proved 
fallacious, or there might be a lack of the true anthropological feel- 
ing among the public. It was not possible to be seriously uneasy 
about any of Saffo’s vajiaries, or her disappointed enthusiasm, 

Saffo liad been at the British Iffuseum. She wanted to read there, 
and she went to the olllce to ai>piy for a ticket of admission to the 
reading-room. Her name and address, with a letter from Mr. 
Bright, asking for a reader’s ticket for his daughter, made everything 
perfectly easy ; at last, as a mere formality, the old gentleman who 
issues the tickets said, 

‘‘ I suppose you are of full age?” 

“ yes, I am nearly nineteen,” said Baffo, quickly. 


330 


ADRIAiq' BRIGHT. 


“ Only nineteen; then I am very sorry I shall not be able to let 
you have a ticket for two years.” 

” But I am a student, and I want4\ read certain books at once.” 

” 1 am very 8or.''y, said the old gentleman, podtely. At this mo- 
ment nine or ten heads rose from behind nine or ten desks. All the 
clerks wanted to look at the young lady who was not yet twenty- 
one. Saffo felt it embarrassing. 

” What absurdity,” she said to herself, as soon as she found her- 
self in the fresher air of a sculpture-gallery. ” What an absurdity 
— not to make an exception in my favor — in favor of such a student 
as myself — ” Saffo meant, though she did not exactly bring the 
thought to words. But they did not know how very exceptional a 
person Saffo w^as. They^ were polite and grieved for her, but the 
old librarian thought there were worse ills in life than not being 
twenty-one, and ills not so curable. 

The disappointed Saffo stood in the Elgin IMarble room at the 
British Museum, resting against the pedestal of one of the line of 
statues facing the Theseus, herself hidden by a great torso. She 
was musing on the Attic perfection of cultuie, begun in Athens so 
early in life, and fostered by the constant discipleship of the Grecian 
youth to the great sages and poets, and by the example of the mighty 
sculptors working in that delicious climate in sight of all the city. 
She thought of that perfect Parthenon, and its influence on the 
lives of those who lived in worship of physical and mental beauty; 
of the Olyrnpium, that antique harp wdiich still sighs to us the 
music of the Greeks, still sings the Grecian glory; and, wondering, 
saw tiie shallow, scofRng, modern world pass on, strangely un- 
affected by the majesty of Greek art. Doubtless, these prided 
themselves upon their superior moral graces. 

She stood long in reverie, wrapped in repose, like those lordly 
statues. From silent, half-indignant wonder she lapsed into pas- 
sionless dreaming on the past, here in this full moonlight revelation 
of antiquity. She, the ardently aspiring girl of to-day, always full 
of wild, fanciful dreams involving excited action, now she dwells 
with the sleeping gods and heroes of the past. For the lime she too 
is marble. 

What wakens her as by a spell? • A figure glides into the hall and 
looks round a& if in search of some one. It is Linda Fraser. She 
has a note in her hand, wdiich she places on an easel standing near 
the Ilyssus, half hiding it by the drawing-board. From where Saffo 
stands she can plainly see the address to Adrian Bright. 

, Then that is his easel, and— and— Why should Linda write to 
him, and so evidently wish to conceal it? What has she to write to 
him that she cannot wait to speak, or dare not tell? And why — 
why does she look so guilty? Not one among all those Grecian 
statues, with all their infinitely varied })hases of expression, not one 
w'ears a countenance of shame and cowardice like that. So Saffo 
read it. IJer quick wit leaped to its convictions with unerring in- 
stinct. Though no word had been spoken, though only a common- 
place action had been done, she felt that a wrong was being com- 
mitted. They were for the time alone in the gallery, only the cus- 
tode was talking with a brother-officer m the further doorway. 
Linda waited. No, ratlier it was lurking, not waiting. Saffo 


ADETAN BRIGHT. 331 

rusliedforward with the rapidity of a hurricane and seized the letter; 
then turned on Linda like a tigress. 

8he had already seen some workings of Linda’s soul that had as- 
tonished her, and led her to suspect more than was revealed. This 
was her business, she must make it hers, to protect the lovel} and 
the innocent. Chance had not led her that way for nothing, and 
this was more than chance, it was fate. Now siie was like one be- 
side herself, agitated, unrecognizable nearly. Her ruffled hair and 
trembling lip betokened the state of her soul. Her eyes flashed 
lightnings, her small hands clinched themselves involuntarily. She 
looked the image of exasperation. Anger took from her the power 
of expression except by gesture, and the mechanical, or, rather, 
electrical motions of the members of iuvolition. Linda absolutely 
cowered before her. Saffo glared, and at length gasped forth, 

“And before the Greek art you pretend to love, you can do a 
thing like that!” 

“You dare to open that letter,” shrieked the terrified Linda. 

Saffo knew that it was criminal. 

” A letter is sacred.” 

” That letter sacred!” Saffo laughed, in utter scorn. 

She tore the letter across, unopened, envelope and all, in tiny 
pieces, and stamped upon them. 

Linda looked relieved; she breathed more freely; she was the 
stronger now. All of which Saffo saw, and all the more condemned 
her. 

” 1 will see Adrian Bright myself,” said Saffo. ” I will settle 
Ibis.” 

” You?” said Linda, sneeringly. ” You have the world’s affairs 
to settle.” 

” The world’s affairs must wait,” said Saffo, seriously. ” 1 will 
stay here till Adrian comes, or, if he does not come, 1 will follow 
you — you are dangerous.” 

Linda was tearfully angry now. Adrian might come at any mo- 
ment. She had everything to fear from an outburst from the im- 
petuous Saffo. 

” But, after all, what do you know? There is nothing to know.” 

” 1 was in Adrian’s studio on Thursday last.” Linda looked 
withered. ” No lies, 1 was there.” 

“You were there!” Linda tried to recall everything that had 
passed. 

“ Yes, I was there; and — once before. Say no more, for Heav- 
en’s sake,” said Saffo, hurriedly. 

Linda had more opportunities of mischief in her power since Her- 
mione’s time was much taken up bj her mother’s visit. She was 
now seldom at Welbeck Street, while Adrian was there much more 
frequently, as, the large Alceste well set in hand for the assistants to 
work upon, Linda had persuaded him to begin a figure of the Lorele}’’ 
nymph which deeply interested him, and this gave Linda a reason 
for often proffering her assistance and her ideas. So artful was 
she, so siren-like, so subtle in her flatteries, so bold in her very de- 
spair of ever winning more than his passing attention, his admira- 
tion of her mental power, that it was as if the spirit of the treacher- 
ous Loreley enchained his talent, so that he could not work on this 


at^rtak bright. 


332 

idea without her at his side. Saffo had already observed this 
witchery in which Linda held him, and one day she repeated to 
him in warning tones the lines, 

■ “ Let not the illusion of thy senses 
Betraj" thee to deadly offenses.” 

But Adrian, in his innocence of all intentional wrong, had not un- 
derstood her, and only said, “ Mysterious Salto,” witli a light, free- 
hearted smile; so that Sallo had cast her cares and her suspicions 
behind her, until that Thursday of which she spoke to Linda, wdien 
they had been aroused again, and further confirmed by tlie letter 
and the aspects of to-day. 

With a great effort at self-command, Linda said, anxiously, 

” You wdll not tell Herrnioue of this?” 

” Tell her, never. Not a wmrd must come near her. If you in- 
jure her,” she hissed Into her ear, ‘‘-Linda, 1 will kill you.” 

‘‘ You are a fool, girl. You don’t know why 1 wrote. My letter 
was on a purely technical point.” 

‘‘ Purely technical— tell that to— the-Ilyssus.” 

Linda soon left the gallery. Adrian had not come. Saffo fol- 
low^ed her home by train, for she went straight home, and not to 
IMaida Yale, and then walked agitatedly back to Welbeck Street 
shortly before Hermione arrived. 

‘‘ The thought of man is not triable,” says a great law'yer, there- 
fore it cannot come under the criminal law'. It is no crime to love, 
even to love w'rongly, if one has the strength to keep it to one s 
seif, says the world. The Bible says otherwMse. Linda’s wrong 
was here, that she, who prided herself on strength of character, did 
not resolutely tear this feeling, that once w'as her misfortune, not 
her fault, out of her heart. A nobler woman wu^uld have accepted 
her defeat magnanimously, and made a fine life out of what was 
left her. 

But no selfish woman was ever noble. Her wrong and her folly 
lay in this, that in her pride of strength she had tampered w'itti 
a weakness that had now become criminal; dallied w'ith it, let it 
master her, till her whole being was steeped in sophistry, and she 
became transformed into the Loreley temptress. 

She had done nothing triable, 3'et was she not to blame? There 
are some sins which are more odious in a moral point of view than 
any actions for which w’e can be punished by law'. Against these 
society is justified in exerting her severest censorship. 

But, as concerning Linda Fraser. It was not so much herein that 
she loved Adrian. She had always loved him, and once-time inno- 
cently and naturall}'. Her fault was that jealousy of her cousin 
Hermione led Linda to envy her the happiness with which she had 
been endowed, and to try to undermine it. 

It was less tliat she could not forget her love for Adrian than that 
she could not endure to see Hermione the winner of the prize for 
which she had struggled. Had she been the brave, noble woman 
.she fondly fancied herself to be, she would have fought against this 
passion and conquered it, have fought until she conquered it, as 
those great artists do w'ho will not sink into accepted failure. 

Critics are said to be those who have failed in literature and art. 


ADKIAN" BRIGHT. 


333 


They fail, becaiise they see the greatness of art and are over- 
whelmed by it. They have not combated the difficulties. They 
fail because their imagination is larger than their will. Some ar- 
tists try, and conquer; see, and yet conquer. Most people never 
ti’y at all, and ?.re blind as fools to the difficulties. 

Adrian was in nowise culpable. Loving art so intenselj’", so 
faithfully, himself, he believed it was a fellow-student he was help- 
ing. He, the stronger artist and a man, felt bound by all chivalrous 
feelings to give aid to a weaker traveler on the same road. She took 
his time — it was her due, perhaps, as a woman. It was his treasure 
— he bestowed it freely, unselfishly; he often robbed his own work 
of liis best moments, the flower of his attention, to feed hers. But 
she was not content; she sapped his vital strength by her siren 
witchery, leading his mind in a declivitous direction, away from 
truth in art and elevation in the ideal, toward a meretricious beauty, 
a merely physical loveliness, denoting no real virtue underneath. 

What could he do, when Linda seemed so desponding, but com- 
fort her? When her pictures failed, and she, as it seemed, cour- 
ageously began the battle over agajn, he could not but help her. 
How was he to know that she only looked to vanquishing her crit- 
ics b}’’ means of his help? He believed in Linda when she talked 
to him grandly in words that found their echo in his own soul. 
Why should he not believe He had always known Linda as she 
wished to be known by him. It was a pity she did not care to be' 
known at her best by all the world; but would too often let drop 
her mask wlien under the keen eyes of youth and those not blinded 
by the bonds of family affection. 

But Saffo held not Adrian blameless. Could he not see that his 
wife grew pale and thin? Was that harassed, patient look in her 
lovely eyes natural to them? Saffo herself had not thought about it 
much until to-day, till now that her eyes were opened as they had 
not been before, not even on that fatal Thursday. 

And what had been that scene? of which Saffo had certainly not 
seen much that was revolting, or she would not have remained 
blind and dumb until to day. Manchester had returned Linda’s 
picture, un.exjiibited, with a polite note signifying, as May opined, 
anti every one else was allowed to understand, that j\lanchester was 
not educated up to it. Had not the world failed to recognize Ros- 
setti, Burne Jones, Holman Hunt, and many others? For her part, 
Linda was proud to fail with these. 

It was only in private that her faith in herself failed her. Im- 
bittered by the ill-success of her works, and her pride deeply 
wounded, Linda had come to-day to Adrian’s studio for comfort 
rather than for help. She, the orphan girl, who had none besides 
to advise her, with the world against her, who lived alone with her 
lofty aspirations, what wonder if she were too wrapped in art, loo 
high-souled to regard the world’s conventions? She came to him 
for consolation. She excited herself until she grew hysterical and 
ill, and sank well-nigh fainting on the divan. Adrian would will- 
ingly have sought in the house for help, but she would have no one 
see her in this condition, and would not let him go. She held his 
hand — he must not, should not. leave her. At this juncture the stu- 
dio door opened quickly, and Saffo stood in the doorway. Saffo 


334 


ADRIAlf BRIGHT. 


stopped short on entering, again saw, and again marveled, and 
then she rushed away. Linda did not perceive that it Was Saffo, 
but they drew apart in haste, a movement which Saffo now, with 
clearer eyes, construed into guilt; though she had then reasoned 
away suspicion in these words. 

“ \Yhy should not Linda goto Adrian’s studio as well as I myself 
— 1 had gone there.” 

Saffo, on her return from the museum, wrote Adrian a letter — a 
letter such as only Saffo could write; a well-meant, blundering let- 
ter, Bleeding-hearted herself, she blindly rushed against everything 
in her well-meant intervention, cutting and thrusting as might a 
swordsman in the dark. 

No harm would have been done, but all would have been well 
and readily explained, for no one W'as more ardent in apolosfv and 
self-conviclion than Saffo, had Mrs. Nugent been kinder, and more 
willing to make allowance for habits she could not understand. 
But she could not be so. She held her code of manners and of cus- 
toms firml}’^ fastened and wide-open, phylactery-wise, round her 
brow, and any deviation therefrom was fatal to her good opinion. 

Since she had been in London she had hourly found fault with 
Adrian for doing, and Hermiane for allowing, solecisms and way- 
wardness of all sorts. Liberty was the one thing she could not 
understand; that a man might do what he would with his own. 
He must do as the world would have him do; that is, just the little 
narrow slice of world to which Mrs. Nuscent belonged. When 
Hermione arrived at Maida Vale she found her usually quiet home 
in a state of high eruption. Mrs. Nugent, chafed and irritated 
before, had taken the opportunity of Hermione’s absence to lecture 
Adrian upon his duties and misdeeds. The frightful misuse of that 
scullery, I believe it was, that most rankled in her flesh; but there 
was an array of other circumstances, that, when they came to be 
reckoned up in the black book, made an appalling host; and she 
had all the more time to reckon them, and gall to vrite them M ith, 
that Adrian’s promised and paid ministry to his mother-in-law was 
interrupted by a visit from Mr. Fairfax, who, after a while of 
lounging in the drawing-room, with his aggravating boots upon the 
biignt fender, and well-nigh upon the sacred fender-stool, had car- 
ried Adrian off to the so-called library to seek a book wddch ought 
to have been there. They talked, as she murmured, of philosopliic 
folly as usual, keeping Adrian aw^ay from her, his guest. She was 
not accustomed to be so neglected. 

It is a veiy high horse, that steed called “ better days.” Yie al- 
ways talk big when we talk about w^ealth, or rank, or any other 
form of things desirable, that we have once possessed, and Mrs. 
Nugent sorely missed the sw'eet attentions of her daughter, now she 
W'as alone at Leeds. Mrs. Nugent was more than ever aggrieved 
that she had several times had to postpone her reproaches to Adrian. 
They w'erc in the heat of boiling dialogue w'iien Hermione came 
home from Welbeck Street. 

Mr. Bright tried, in his clumsy, well intentioned way, to soothe 
them and make peace: Adrian wnent off angry to the scullery studio. 
He W’as deeply chafed. 

Hermione, distressed at seeing her delicate work of smoothing 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


335 


the outsides of things inconizruous all ruffled and destroyed, was 
miserable at failing to reconcile the disputants, and was driven away 
in tears, 

Adrian had not been without his trials of late. His own work was 
disappointing him, and he was feeling hurried with the ducal monu- 
ment. Fine as it was, it had failed of perfection in Adrian’s stern 
criticism of himself, comparing himself with what he meant to be; 
he felt his work to be unworthy of himself at his now raised stand- 
ard, and Hermione, busy with her household trifles, had not seemed 
to care. Indeed, she thought it perfect, as she did all he made, or 
said, or thought; but infinitely beyond her approval or opinion at 
all. 

She had not yet grown up to Adrian, and he did not perceive how 
rapidly she was growing. Linda’s false persuasions, for she always 
edged in an idea of Ilermione’s feebleness where she could, and 
Mrs, Kugent’s interpretation of Hermione’e real sentiments, pained 
and depressed him, us she made herself the mouthpiece and asserted 
her daughter’s rights. And Adrian, the vivid, high-souled artist, 
had often soliloquized of late, and asked himself and his invisible 
suiTOundings: “ Is the poetry all gone from my life? Have 1 woke 
up from a sweet but fleeting dream?” Was his idol broken? If so, 
who but himself had broken it? 

The late post brought him Saffo’s letter. This angered him terri- 
bly. At another time he would have laughed, and passed it off as 
a mare’s-nest of silly Saffo’s finding; but coming thus on Mrs 
Nugent’s reproaches and his own grave doubts, knowing himself 
innocent, he felt deeply injured by it. No, if Hermione were cause 
lessly, absurdly jealous, she must learn that his art had claims on 
him which could not be overlooked. 

To expect him to sit idle in that wretched pink drawing-room all 
day, and hand about tea-cups, was what no man, no artist, could 
endure. Linda, at any rate, had a soul for art. And Linda, the or- 
phan, as she had so often appealed to his chivalry by reminding 
him, with none to, fight her battle for her; it was mean, it was 
cowardly, of Saffo thus to strike her down, to blast her good name. 
None bore her good- will in that family, therefore he would befriend 
her. 

All this was true — but had she not been her own enemy? and 
was not Adrian himself in danger, when he let himself be tempted 
so very near the brink of ruin of his domestic peace? 

He was like a moth fluttering round a candle. The moth does not 
intend to get burned; but its fate is taken entirely out of its own 
power when once the creature vfflirls within that fatal influence. 
Linda, in her softer hours, was dangerously seductive. 


CHAPTER XLV. 

“ Upon my secure hour thy uncle stole, 
mth juice of cursed hebenon in a vial, 

And in the porches of my ears did pour 
The leperous distilment.” 

Hamlet. 

Adrian was often moody enough now, though he tried to resist 
the gloom that the consciousness of disappointment threw over even 


336 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


his inventive hours; here, perhaps, more than at other times, for he 
grieved more and more that he had no help meet for him; no one 
who could share, and, in sharing, double his best thoughts, strength- 
en his higliest aims. It was as if a mildew were growing over him, 
a cold, damp blight that sucked the youth, the lite, out of his veins 
and bones and hair, and left them thin and faded; or as if a dense 
black fog had gradually spread over the blue of the sky and blotted 
out its brightness. Was Linda’s curse really working? Did he, as 
she had warned him, see with disenchanted eyes? Was Hermione 
really nothing more than a lovely waxen image, that he had vainly 
hoped to charm into life; an animate lay-figure, exquisite in flesh 
and form and, for the rest— her mother’s daughter; a thing of shreds 
and patches of mere worldliness (as Linda was always saying), glued 
together with conventional propriety. The body was wedded, but 
the soul?— here Linda always implied a doubt mingled with subtile 
flattery to himself: honey and gall together, a poison cunningly pre- 
pared and poured into his ears daily, as she unrelentingly followed 
on a linked chain of sophistry when they met on their way to the 
train to go to Welbeck Street or the British Museum. At such times 
he was her captive; a captive to convention, for he could not leave 
her to walk by herself, and, like the unwilling wedding guest, he 
needs must hear. Sometimes he tried to avoid her ; but when was 
man clever or artful enough to escape a woman’s net? The station 
was near her house, and her windows commanded the approaches to 
it. Linda waited until he came, and then joined him; or if, as often 
chanced, Hermione walked with him to the station, in coming home 
at night she had her fly secure. He was like Ulysses at the mercy 
of the sirens; yet, fast bound by his marriage bonds, he could only 
be her sport and not her prey. She had no settled plan. If ques 
tioned by her conscience, or another, she would have said she was 
Imt telling him the truth, so that he might have a firm foundation 
on which to build some happiness, at least, out of what would be 
wrecked at the inevitable moment the bubble of his belief in the di- 
vinity of the baby he had married should burst. 

Linda monopolized Adrian’s attention at all the family gatherings 
at the Brights, where they worked and dined and talked together as 
of old; with Hermione as an additional flower in their circlet, and 
occasionally the meteoric Satfo, when none of her multifarious proj- 
ects called her forth to risk her chance of dinner; and sometimes 
Little Flitters would remain after the children’s music-lessons w^ere 
over, when she had no evening party to attend; and these two, the 
sculptor and his quasi-pupil, conversed on art and lofty themes from 
which Hermione felt herself excluded. 

“There must be equality to a certain extent between friends,’’ 
said Linda, loftily implying that she was such a peer to Adrian, and 
that others less elevated in taste were but as pets or children, 

“There must also be insight,’’ said Mrs. Bright. Hermione 
pressed her hand involuntarily, then drew away hers and blushed. 
Her sweet temper and retiring disposition made them all too often 
ignore her feelings, and she was, as it were, told off to play with 
the children, or to be the target of Mr. Bright’s latest bad shots at 
science; when he had missed his mark, and wondered why, or 
wished to explain away his failure. 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


337 

Thus, not played upon, and the music not drawn out of her, she 
became the silent one of the parly; and led — misled — Linda’s 
insinuations that she disapproved of their ways, and disdained other 
than fashionable or worldly talk, they failed to see that she was all 
overstrung to music; that she thought in poetry as a native language; 
that her poetry was truly “ musical thought.” One lives to others 
almost wholly by one’s speech, and had she spoken much, she must 
have been revealed. But this timid spirit needed the call, to an- 
swer, and she did not receive it. There were so many talkers in this 
family that the intellectual space was crow^ded. 

Shakespeare’s characters are personilied to us chiefly by their 
speech, and a little by elucidation from the speech of others; they 
live to us as truly when we read their speech by our fireside as wlicn 
we hear them on the stage. ” Man, by the nature of him,” as Car* 
lyle says, ” is definable as an incarnated word.” Linda, who, when 
Safifo was aw'ay, ruled the conversation by arrogating the right to do 
so, at the Brights’, did not care to elucidate the beautiful character 
of Hermione, nor to turn her lantern on it; so it was left in shade, 
only known, lilce the hidden violet, by its sweetness; a simile which 
will last and do duty as long as there are violets or sweet Hermiones. 
She was, as it were, asong without words. They sometimes wound 
her up to sing, as they might a musical-box, but they knew not that 
those sweet, sad words were her own, and only the symbol or cloth- 
ing of her sweeter, sadder feelings. She never told this, wherefore 
should they guess it— -guess that the pathos which made their eyes 
brim over was born of real feeling, and no poetic sham? Her whole 
life sang from her lips; for she had never yet put head in the place 
of heart. She felt so lonely now in this large, busy family. She 
had no sisters; her mother, who had loved her, was estranged; 
Adrian was away all day. She was not fitted into her niche yet. A 
transplanted young girl must inevitably droop awhile, if only in the 
natural reaction after the excitement oif the marriage drama 

When Flitters was there, full of her light garrulity, Linda kept 
herself severely silent, or encoiiraged Hermione to babble in duet 
with Day, a playful dance-music that only show^ed her youth, or, 
as might be fancied, her frivolity. Hermione could laugh and chat- 
ter still, for with her as with all lyrical souls, laughter lies very near 
to tears; wit and sorrow have tlieir source in the same sensitively 
sympathetic nature, and are its proof. She had what Flitters, who 
recognized her best, because most affectionately, called, ” a thin- 
skinned soul.” 

I cast no blame for this upon the Brights, Uncle Jos and Tante. 
They loved Hermione, but they were of an elder generation, and 
they let the young ones play while they absorbed themselves in their 
own graver problems. They saw that Linda w\as hard, but they 
w^ere used to her hardness; and, while Hermione could laugh with 
Flitters, they thought the hardness passed by her utiheeded as if she 
were a careless child, and they could not suspect that she had a 
canker at her heart. In so large a family it was the rule for each 
one to take care of himself; and if Hermione could not get on with 
Linda, there was Saffo ready to stand her friend, 

Adrian was still working in his studio, late, by gaslight; for he 
was ablaze with a fine conception, full of fire, and he remained to 


338 * ADRIAK BRIGHT. 

work it out. And Hermione stayed later than usual, waiting for 
him to take her home. 

"Now that Mrs. Nugent had returned to Leeds, Tante encouraged 
Hermione to come to Welbeck Street each day. She was used to 
Adrian’s not coming home to dinner. He could not give up his 
work for the sake of a meal, so he took a hasty dinner witli his aunt, 
who also could not now spare a moment of daylight. The dinner 
truly moved with the sun, as Flitters often laughingly remarked, 
and Friol was in a fair way to lose his head as well as his temper. 
The family came to meals if, and when, their more important call- 
ings would allow. 

“ Put it on the table,” was the housekeeping rule when sublime 
ideas were abroad, ” and any one who wants dinner can come in and 
take it.” So a dish of potatoes stood eternally in the fender, and 
Mr. Bright abstracted plates for his specimens, or surreptitious 
scraps to turn into phosphates, whenever he pleased. These were 
golden times for him. This sounds uncomfortable, but there is 
something to be said on both sides. It suited them all, this order of 
things. But Hermione, brought up under the strict rule of pro- 
priety, could not reconcile herself to this ” dinner in (:Z^s7iabille,” as 
I must again quote from my little friend Flitters, and felt desultory 
and out of gear. 

Hermione sat musing by the firelight, after long watching Adrian’s 
windows, “ putting herself, in a minor key,” thought Flitters, who 
rushed in to see if any one v ere going home her way — that is, any 
one that was not Linda, whom she liked about as much as a cat likes 
cold water. 

Tante and Cinderella came in glowing from their evening stroll. 
Mrs. Bright needed ail the daylight for her painting, so they often 
went out late af.er dinner for what they called a prowl, just lightly 
clad in what wraps came handy, each other’s clothes as often as not, 
or a wmoleu antimacassar, one of ]\lr. Bright’s bargains, for a shawl. 
This was one of the things that had most shocked Mrs. Nugent when 
she >vas last in town and heard of it. That ladies should go out 
walking by owd-light, dressed ” not like ladies, but as if for a moth- 
er’s meeting,” was horrible; and to hear that” extraordinaiy young 
person, Miss Flitters, say, in justification of such witys, ‘ The more 
doubtful we are, the more interesting we are,’ was really outrageous.” 

” We feel like Haroun al Baschid and his vizier looking in at the 
wdndows,” Cinderella had said, laughingly; ” picking up hints for 
furniture, and seeing how people live; profiting by their correct ex- 
ample, I hope, and enjoying the fragrant second course as its per- 
fume comes up the area.” 

‘‘ How vulgar!” thought Mrs. Nugent. ‘‘ I must warn Hermione 
not to associate much with these people, at most, no more than the 
merest civility demands.” 

She was distressed to see their progress in intimacy since she was 
last in London. 

“ Really, a young married woman needs as much looking after as 
achild, tokeepberoutof social mischief,” soliloquized Mrs. Nugent. 

“ One learns so much more of life and of the ways of one’s neigh- 
bors by going out at unconventional hours,” said Mrs. Bright, 
simply. 


ADRIAiq- BRIGHT, 


339 


“ But the ladies ia Welbeck Street and Cavendish Square do not 
usually go outwalking late in the evening, surely?” asked Mrs. 
Nugent, astonished. 

“Oh, dear, no; I never meant my neighbors, in a literal sense; 
but my poorer neighbors, they of the working-classes, who are much 
more interesting. ” 

“ What dreadful bringiug-up fora daughter nearly seventeen!” 
thought Mrs. Nugent. 

They had just come in, and were still full of their talk about Cin- 
derella’s latest tragedy, and how difficult it was to ” wire iu papa’s 
theories, and his ponderous suggestions about phosphates, in the 
body of the work.” 

” Just five lines will do it,” he said, eager to put in a word out of 
season anywhere. 

‘‘Mamma, my second hero is a noble being who has been led 
astray and h.as sold himself to Satan, 3 ^etall his uobilitj" hangs abcmt 
him still. Well, I am thinking of some crime, some gentlemanly 
sin, you know, for him to commit, and papa wants me to explain all 
about his physical structure, and liow his bones were strengthened 
by eating porridge.” 

Mrs. Bright saw' that it was hopeless to weave such themes into 
Cinderella’s romance, and suggested relegating the scientific matter 
to the foot-notes. 

’Bella’s trials as an author were indeed great. Often, when she 
w'as w’^eaving her deepest tragic plot, or writing, say, the soliloquy 
of a heroine over her ” father’s murdered corpse ” in blank verse, 
and making her lines scan: 

” ‘ Ah, woe is me, to whom can 1 tell my grief ’ — no — ‘ Ah, woe 
is me, whence cometh all my grief?’ That is better. ‘ Ferdinand 
raises the arras; she shrieks and swoons — ’ ” 

‘‘ What greens shall W'e have with the beef, to-morrow, ’Bella?” 
W'ould Mr. Bright say, apropos of something entirely different; and 
for long afterward only ” beef ” would rhyme to ‘‘ grief.” 

Cinderella w'as still housekeeping, as Saffo was absorbed in larger 
matters, and Mrs. Bright was chiefly occupied with art. 

iVrr. Bright looked sharply after the large beef bones, to carbonize 
and pulverize for his phosphate-pot; and he analyzed the various 
members of the brassicaciae tribe to find the proportion of potash that 
each held. 

‘‘ Have I not my trials, mother,” said ’Bella, piteously. ” My 
little body is a-wear}' of this great world,” she sighed. 

” You may have w'orse experience wdien you are married, ’Bella. 
Sir Luke Sharpe may be awful,” said May. 

Sir Luke Sharpe was a bridegroom always prophesied for Cinder- 
ella, as a punishment for her being slow in her movements, and, like 
Safl'o, alw'ays behind time, owing to her star-gazing propensities. 

” 1 shall have to select Sir Luke with care.” said ’Bella. 

‘‘Nature is kind, and adapts lovers to each other’s ways,” ob- 
served Mrs. Bright. 

” But one has not the pick of one’s papa,” said Flitters. 

The children came rushing from the nursery supper to say 
‘‘ good-night,” and to see if there was any fun going that they 
might share, or any mischief to be done profitably before bed-time. 


340 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


To-day they looked more like a lot of Mulready’s little pickles 
than any other great master’s cherubs. Cinderella went on with 
her immortal work industriously. Ilermione was having her 
mind strengthened by papa’s science, being permitted to clean 
his instruments with wash-leather, and look at corpuscles through 
the microscope. Flitters was telling stories and chatting with 
the children. Adrian and Linda came in, and talked critically of 
“ outline ” at the further end of the room. Robert le Liable 
silently approached Linda where she was talking with Adrian, and 
pinned her sash to the cashions of the window-seat, while he pre- 
tended to be devoted to entomology, i.e.y the pursuit of flies in the 
window. Seeing she was absorbed in the discussion of Greek art, 
Bobby slipped some thin twine through her hair-ribbon and made 
it fast to the shutter, and then innocently turned to his slaughter 
of the half-torpid flies, and study of their structure; and to ascertain 
by experiment if they could walk as well with three legs as with six; 
or, if not, how they got on with the “ new step.” 

” ’Rella,” said Augusta, who had been pondering a knotty point, 
” suppose, before you marry Sir Luke Sharpe, some American comes 
and sues for your hand, and his name is Jefferson W. Adams. 
What will you do?” 

” As if 1 could possibly marry an American!” said the romantic 
Cinderella, in a tone of ineffable scorn. 

“Americans are no worse than other people, that I can see,” 
said May; “ and they are much more highly educated. In Boston 
they are really cultured.” 

“ No one said they were worse; they are only not so lovely as 
the Greeks,” said Julia, who was imbibing aesthetic ideas. In that 
family they held up everything Greek as an ideal. 

“ 1 hale the Greeks,” said Bobby, dissecting his fly. “ 1 mean 
some (lay to live in lodgings, like Day Flitters; and I shall have 
done with your horrible Greek ways.” 

Here he kicked over a basket of phosphates in the raw state. 

Bobby was always a “ Mulready,” which, in that family, meant 
the picture ot a naughty boy. 

“ In lodgings one’s very puddings are made with ancient Greece,” 
said Flitters, grimly 

“But you can do ’’—here he pulled off a fourth leg — “and 
say what you like, and you don’t have to speak it in French or 
German. Why, there’s Friol now, 1 tell that fellow ‘ nein,* and he 
won’t ‘ ” The aggrieved Bobby finished off the fly’s legs. 

“ As for Romance, it’s bad enough to have to do beastly Latiu^'at 
school, without having to do experimental Latin, applied Latin, at 
home, when one needs rest— or niceness.” Here went the wings. 

Arthur Pendragon was finishing his divinity lesson on the good 
and naughty ehihlren of Scripture. 

“I’ve got down Samuel, and Elisha and the bears; but what 
others are there?” 

“ Cain was a very naughty little boy, I’ve heard,” said Flitters. 

“ I suppose he killed flies in the window,” said Bimbo, who al 
ways followed Bobby, but yet had misgivings about the flies, 

Uther was busy “doing his vulgar" fractions,” as he styled it. 
“ A half-penny from a penny farthing I can, but twopence from 


ADRiAiq- BRIGHT. 


341 

a penny three- farthings 1 cannot.” He protested he did not see the 
use of this, and thought, with Mr. Fairfax, that lessons were a mis- 
take, 

” 1 can never bean author, mother,” said Cinderella, after a long, 
energetic burst of writing, ” 1 cannot kill up the characters, after 
1 have grown to love them so. Scott must have had a heart of 
stone to kill Fergus Mclvor.” 

‘‘ Then you would tinish a tragedy like a lameutalde comedy,” 
said Flitters, who had emptied herself of tales to the ungrateful 
children, who now cried up Hermione as the best author of the lot 
of them. 

“Tell us a story, Ninemine,” clamored the eager, unsatisfied 
<3hildren. 

“ It is getting late; it is a quarter to nine,” demurred Elerraioue. 

“ Oh, we’ll call it twenty to. That will give us a good five min- 
utes more,” said Bobby, the practical arithmetician. 

“ She tells lovel.y stories,” they said to Cinderella, who disposed 
herself to listen to her rival author. 

“ And you tell big stories,” said Flitters to Bobby. 

“ Oh, come! it isn’t fair to scold out of lesson -time,” said Bobby, 
“ If you do I’ll lift you up.” 

He prepared himself to do so. The strong boy of nine had no 
difficulty in lifting Little Flitters off her feet, and holding her igno- 
miniouslj^ off her balance in mid-air until she consented tojhis terms. 

“Hullo! that position will do for the Rape of the Sabines,” 
Adrian had said, the first time he saw this piece of lynch-law in 
practice; and he rescued the prize from the young Homan. 

“Ah! your music is enough to make all the bile go the wrong 
way,” said Flitters. “ I don’t want anything worse than that.” 

“ You are stopping the story,” said Bimbo, reproachfully, to 
Flitters. He always defended Ilobby. “ Ninemine is waiting to 
tell it to us.” They all laughed; perhaps Flermionewas relieved to 
escape the cold deluge of science, or its streams of hot ashes, and 
glad to pour out some of her pent-up feelings in the fairy tales she 
invented as she went on. Adrian and Linda seemed still busy with 
their talk, so she went on and softly told the “ Tale of Crinklebell.” 

“ Once upon a time there was a fairy, not powerful, but a deli- 
cate, tender fairy, a young fledgling fairy, as it were, called Crinkle- 
bell. To all outward opi>earance she was an icicle, and nobody 
would have known she was a fairy at all, so much was she like any 
ordinary icicle, as she stayed so quietly in her nook under the eaves 
of the thatched barn. She did not even know she was a faiiy, she 
was so modest an<l ready to think every one else belter than her- 
self; nor did she know that she was beautiful and transparent as 
tlie proud Crystal on the rock, who flouted her because she some- 
times saw her melt into ‘.ears when the sun shone and made every- 
thing else glad with his bright beams. But though she loved the 
sun.°aud without sun, you know, there is no Crinklebell, she stayed 
on her beam under the eaves and grew very slender.” 

“ That is true,” put in Mr. Bright. “ Crinklebell is the child of 
sunshine anfl the vapor.” 

“ The night was her happiest time, for the moon glanced kindly 
on Crinklebell, and lent her one of his silver rays to adorn her pensile 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


342 

form, and slie shone for gladness until you would have thought she 
was a sister of the stars on high.” 

” And I suppose the stars peeped out of their holes and talked to 
her?” asked eager Bimbo. 

” Spring came, and Crinklebell grew^ dim and thin. She felt so 
lonely now that the soft snowflakes had all said pood-by, and none 
W'ere left to kiss her and give her strength. The bell roses, as they 
call the daffodils in Crinklebell’s counlry, seemed to shake their 
amber heads at her, and the river kissed the crocuses as he ran 
past, but never sent his love to Crinklebell. Timorously she froze 
up into her niche again, and Crystal mocked at her melting, dwin- 
dling form, as she seemed starved for went of love. Only the kind 
Queensfeather, flowering on the lilac-bush, wafted her its fragrance, 
and whispered, ‘ Nevermind, dear Crinivlebell, good times come for 
all who w^ait patiently, trusting. You will he happy yet,’ Crinkle- 
bell wept so much at the kind words and at the thought of how 
happy were the dewdrops that lay in Queensfeather’s scented cups, 
and ran down her stem to play in the stream yonder, that she grew 
so thin as to be almost wasted away; until Crystal, wiio never cried, 
told tales of her weeping to the old grandmother, the Snownlrift, 
w’ho had remained for years increasing her wealth and hoarding it 
in the dark recesses of the Cleeve. And the Snow'drift scolded 
Crinklebell for not growing rich and gouty, and for not keeping up 
the honor of the family. 

” ‘ Listen to me, Crinklebell,’ said the crone, ‘ and I will tell you 
our duty in life, and what we should hope to grow’^ to. One day 
Iw'o creatures, called men, came and sat down on the bank near my 
home. They were not handsome objects, like we are; being only 
covered with some dingy gray garments that set my angles on edge to 
look at; but they were evidently wise, and had seen many wonders 
in places a great way off. They looked hard at Crystal, who, I 
must say, tried to attract their attention. This flattered her pride, 
but instead of making love to her in our pleasant fashion, one of 
them took up a stone and gave her a tremendous blow and tore off 
a piece of her beautiful, glittering dress, and laughed as he put it 
in a light bag, a sort of crevasse, near his body. 1 then discovered 
thej' were thieves, and I stayed perfectly mute with horror and fear 
lest they should rob me too, and shivered wdien they spied me out, 
Tliey seemed to respect my age, how^ever, and did not injure me at 
all; but they were scoffers, like the rest of that conceited mankind 
family; and talked of much finer snowdrifts they had seen in foreign 
parts, 1 listened, for 1 am wise enough to wisdi to learn more, and 
they talked of a glorious fairy they had been introduced to, called 
Rosenlaui, and about her size and splendor, and her robes of daz- 
zling color, finer by far than 5 'our Queensfeather or your bell-roses, 
who are all low-bred creatures brought up in the dirt; and grander 
than Cr 3 ’^ 8 tal was even on the day she dressed herself in the fashion 
of the rainbow. And what do jmu think they said? That this great 
Princess Rosenlaui was of the same family with us, only that her 
forefathers had had from their high position great opportunities of 
acquiring wealth, and l)ad accumulated it for ages. Wherefore 1 
hoard up all the snow that 1 can in order to become great and honor- 
able and beautiful, like my cusin, Princess Rosenlaui, some day. I 


ADRIAN" BRIGHT, 


343 

am thankful to be highly connected. My advice to you is that you 
should do your best while you are youn" to grow great, and not 
squander your substance foolishly among the creatures of a day 
that live in gardens, flaunting and setting a bad example; and then 
you will be respected and powerful in your old age. So do as I tell 
you, and turn a cold face on all beggars, and lovers, and those sorts 
of people. Wither them up with a black look, and they will not 
bother you anymore than they do me.’ But Crinklebell thought 
she could be happier lying at the feet of her dear Queensfeather 
where she could look up in her sweet face as she refereshed and 
washed her roots, than even if she could grow to a grand glacier 
like Roseiilaui; and partly to please her family, and partly because 
she could not help it, she*stayed in her place under the eaves. But 
she fell into a decline, and wasted away, and one noontide she bade 
farewell to her friends, for she felt like dying; and they were sad 
for their pretty, quiet Crinklebell, as she dropped into the river and 
seemed loat. But she was not dead, and the movement felt delight- 
ful to her, and her stiffness wore away as she rushed along with all 
the water though the sunny meadows, where the river kissed the 
flowering rushes, and sang through the reeds to the forget-me-nots; 
and Crinklebell felt joyous, and danced with delight, until the Sun- 
beam himself saw her gayety, and so lightened her heart of all grief 
that he drew her up and up still higher, until she felt lighter and 
more buoyant, as ^motherand still more blissful change passed over 
her. Sunshine answered sunshine, and she soared among the clouds 
in the form of a radiant crystal, beautiful as a flower, aerial as a 
feather, as she rose higher and higher, and saw the gates of heaven 
itself. She hovered over the Cleeve where her grandmother dwelt, 
and the proud Crystal. ‘ Ah! she can never change, and rise, and 
soar,’ thought Crinklebell, pitifully, as she looked at the dark, 
defied rock; and then she cast a tender smile upon the upturned 
face of Queensfeather, and dropped one night into a newly opened 
calyx, in form of a dewdrop, tljen rose to heaven again.” 

” Blessed is she whose heart the holy forms of young imagination 
have kept pure,” thought Mr. Bright, reverently, as Hermione end- 
ed her tale 

The children were quieter than usual; there were none of the out- 
bursts of mischief that usually pointed the moral of Flitters’s live- 
lier Stories; for Flitters, as a rule— well, perhaps not as a rule, but 
as a fact— let them be naughty; Hermione made them good. 

It is true, her stories were seldom so dreamy as this one, nor had 
such a strain of sadness running through them; but it was bed-time, 
and Bambino lay half asleep on her bip, and — there were other cir- 
cumstances that she only knew. 

Toward the close of the tale Adrian had looked at the group 
thronging Hermione, as if he beheld a figure of the Madonna^ with 
the Holy Child in her arms; and seeimr all their absorbed faces, and 
thinking something must really interest them to keep ’Rella, and 
Flitters, and even Bobby, so open mouthed with hearing, he drew 
near beside Hermione to listen. She caught his eye for an instant, 
and altered the intended current of her talk to something less mel- 
ancholy 

Linda also rose, to hear something that should justify her scorn, 


ADRIAiq" BRIGHT. 


344 

and give fresh pollen to work up into her Medea cakes. The twine 
fartened through her hair-ribbon pulled down her hair; which 
would not have mattered, only that it unfortunately happened that 
she wore one twist of hair that Flitters called “ not entirely orig- 
inal,” and the heavy cushion, pinned to her sash, nearly threw her 
backward. 

‘‘Linda has founded it out that she’s hunged up,” whispered 
Bimbo, who, from bis position in Hermione’s arms, lay facing the 
back room window. ‘‘ She’ll ask who tieded her up, and she'll be 
so ang’y wig loo,” he added, in a terrified undertone. Bobbv 
nudged Arthur, the divinity student, as he detected the flush of 
anger and the wrathful glance she shot at the children, as she hastily 
rearranged her hair and disengaged her dress. 

‘‘ She’ll never enter the Kingdom if she glares like that,” said 
Arthur, in a decisive whisper of judgment to Bobby. No one else 
saw the affront, and Linda judged it was most dignified to extricate 
herself without attracting the attention of grown-up people. But 
none the better did she love Robert le Diable, on whom at once her 
surmises alighted. Truly, he was an awful child. 

The tale was over, and there was a general movement. 

Linda, may sneer, and say that allegory is quite out of date, but 
Adrian is pensive. He still hears the low sweetness of the voice, 
sees the shy look that altered the story at his coming, restrained its 
feeling, yet at length, carried away by the fervor of creation, put 
more of her own spirit into her tale than without disguise she had 
cared to show, or could show at another time. He feels the large- 
ness of the idea (that was unconscious to Hermione’s own self), that 
there is an ethical movement of an exquisite creation, in rhythmic 
change and mutual ministering; a loveliness higher and other than 
the more material beauty of arlE and flowers; that there is a soul be- 
yond art, such as even he, with all his genius, could never ijut into 
j a Galatea. He may put all his own mind into the dumb idol, and 
i invest it with his love, his worship; but there is a spiritual loveli- 
j ness that soars above it yet; as different, and much higher, as the 

' lark which sings is above the glowing coi'nfields, and even the 

li home-nest over which it sings; and yet there is a sky above the bird, 
j and heaven beyond again. Yes, there is Linda, there is art, there is 
his own genius, yet above these, higher than these, is Hermione’s 

I sweeter spirit, her love and warbling voice, and above these, heaven. 
What if Linda, disdaining Hermione’s ignorance of the technics of 
art, has failed to recognize art’s essence? if she has been all this 
while, like a tempter from a lower sphere, dragging him down to 
bow before art’s lowest quality, its merely material form? He, 
who had looked to Linda for her sympathy, was now checked by 
her cold sneer. 

AYhy had he not looked to Tante and her husband, who both, 
felt with him and with HermioneY Young people, with feelings 
[\ burning for expression, cannot conceive that older persons have 
already put those self-same feelings into action. 

We all have such complex cbaracter, and the right management 
' of such, our own or others, is like the skill of a player on an in- 
tV strument— -only to be perfected by discipline and love, through 

length of days. Only children pan obtain insight into character by 


ADRIAX BRIGHT. 345 

inspiration ; but then, they have come so lately from the angehland, 
and liave not yet quite lost their wings. 

That reminds me of Bobby and his wingless fly. He grew pen- 
sive, and took up the defunct fly quite tend^erl}", rolled it in paper, 
and gave it decent burial in a flower-pot; disinterring in the opera- 
tion some reels of cotton he had planted there long ago; and Bimbo 
drew him near to liermione “ to be loveded. And Ninemine wants 
to be loveded too.” She bid her face in his golden curls to conceal 
the tears which sprang. She dearly loved this child and the bright 
Bobby, who was only good when under her influence. Those two 
seemed to her, in their different ages, like Adrian when a boy— each 
one an Adrian who loved her. ; 

Robert was a genius, of that she was certain; another Adrian 
Bright, always ready to be loved and ruled by her, and the little 
brother was Adrian in his infancy. It was a foretaste of what 
would by and by be the beautiful maternal feeling, whose time had 
not yet come. She hid her face in the fair curls, and murmured, 

” Thank God for this little treasure he has given me, to keep my 
heart warm.” For she at times, like Crinklebell, felt made of ice, 
and doomed by fate to live in an ice-cleft. 

Flitters looked at her, and wagged her curly head in a way tnat 
implied that she was fast making up her mind about something. 

” I like fairy tales better than historical stories, because one has 
no horrid dates to recollect, and one is not questioned about them 
afterward,” said Julia. ‘‘ They tell us historical tales at the High 
School, and call it lectures; it is really telling stories, you know\ 
When Princess Louise came yesterday to inspect ns, she heard us 
talking about roj'alty. Prince W^illiam, William Rufus, and those; 
some relation to her, w'eren’t they? She seemed to understand all 
rJjout them.” 

‘‘ I wonder if she always likes hearing critiques on her family?” 
said Augusta, speculatively. 

‘‘ I think stories with fairy godmothers are best, after all,” said 
trobby, who was putting up his tin soldiers; “they alw'ays give 
such nice presents.” 

” But they are not true,” said matter-of-fact Arthur, ” not even 
founded on fact.” 

” If there were fairy godmothers now, Bobby, what should you 
wish for?” asked Uther. 

The children were slowdy putting aw^ay their tin soldiers, making 
them retreat deliberately and in good order. 

” Well, 1 should wish for a box of real live tin soldiers, and I 
would buy a penn’orth of needles, and let them run them into each 
other.” 

The young divinity student was horrified— and preached. 

”1 wish fairy godmothers came about birthday times; it would 
be such a saving of one’s pocket-money.” 

” Oh, how stingy of you, Bobby!” cried Julia. 

” I have done a birthday for twopence in my time,” whispered 
Bobby, in confidence, to Cinderella. 

” Oh, you horrid boy! How would you like your birthday to be 
done for twopence?” exclaimed Julia, overhearing the remark. 

Julia always reckoned ninepence an appropriate sacrifice on the 


346 


ADRIAN BRIGHT, 


altar of affection. That is, a shilling, as she explained it, bought a 
nice thing, suitable for birthdays; only, by buying it at the Cob 
(papa paying the railway fare), she got it for ninepence, and the 
outing was thrown in, and the costs massed with the general order 
for sultanas, raisins, oatmeal, etc. Therefore she had a right to 
lecture Bobby — Bobby, who was known to have been mean enough 
to give his sister Ids old printing-press (that he had bought second' 
hand of another boy, and had grown tired of) for a biitlulay pres 
ent, after he had cast the t3"pe into bullets. He had taken it awaj^ 
on her giving him some offense, and given it to another sister on 
her next birthday, with much the same sequence; so that there was 
every prospect of its going through the famil}'-, like the measles or 
whooping-cough. 

“ May is very fond of going and pricing things, when she hasn’t 
a copper in her pocket,” said Bobby, to the company generally. 

” Well, it’s all eilucalional,” said her father’s daughter, in self- 
defense. 

Ma}”^ being well-nigh demolished by this withering remark, Bobby 
proceeded to clear his character to Hermione. 

” I wanted to buy mamma a nice birthday present with my two- 
pence, which was my little all,” he explained, in self -justification, 
” and 1 saw in Holborur twopenny boxes of diamond dust. Now, T 
thought, if any diamonds should chance to have been overlooked 
among the diamond dust, one of those would be a tine thing to give 
mamma. I threw my wisdom in with the twopence, you see. 1 
bought a box, and lo! it was full of some horrid red powder. 1 
make my own diamond dust now by filing a flower-pot.” 

Hermione laughed. 

He also decidedly took after his father. He proceeded with his 
confessions and revelations. 

” Well, another time 1 was done. 1 saw a magazine sort of book 
put iq) to be sold at twmpence a week; and the placard said, ‘ Who- 
ever purchases the first number of this work will be entitled to a 
splendid engraving.’ 1 thought I could buy the number, and give 
the engraving to papa (it was his birthday this time), and not buy 
any more numbers of the book afterward. Well, the picture was 
only the rubbishy frontispiece after all, and printed on at the back, 
too. I quite expected a steel print as good as that big one at Mr. 
Carron’s. That’s ni}’’ idea of a splendid engraving.” 

The family likeness to the brothers Joe and Jos was very strong 
in this boy. 

‘‘ You are a rare hand at a bargain, Bobby,” said Adrian, pre- 
paring to leave. 

‘TIa! you should have seen me and the Jew boy at our school. 
‘ Why don’t you have one of the oak-bound slates?’ says he to me. 
‘ You can’t afford ’em, I suppose.’ I was in an 'awful wax, and 
said, ‘ Do you deal in slates? If so, I will patronize j^ou, and look 
over your stock,’ ” 

“I can fancy the collapse of the Jew boy,” said the laughing 
Flitters, who was ready before Linda and Hermione. 

Bobby liked appreciation, and went on, 

” So 1 treated him to a piece of my mind in school arithmetic. 
Two pieces of ignorance are a piece of impudence; two pieces of 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


347 

impudence are fifty lines. Twice fifty lines are one detention, and 
two detentions are not worth half the walloping I’ll give 3’^ou, if you 
cheek me again.” 

” The greatest piece of cheek I ever met with,” said May, tired 
of holding her tongue, ” was lyhen Gussie had to write a copy of 
strokes, and then wrote her name in full, in running hand, at the 
boltom of it: Augusta Glorvina Bright.” 


CHAPTER XL VI. 

“ She dared not look again; 

But turned, with sickening soul, within the gate— 

‘ It is no dream— and I am desolate I’ ” 

Byron. 

Hermione’s childlike playful ness— that bloom as of flowers which 
is one sign of the poetic nature {that catches its play of Jbeam and 
breeze from heaven itself, and expands in an infinite variety of grace- 
ful shapes, each choosing its color from the solar rays; its spectrum 
pattern card— her changeful mirth, had given place of late to a 
timid manner and beseeching glance, that seemed awed by the pres- 
ence of superior beings. Not only Linda — she had long felt cowed 
before Linda— but every one seemed to have a purpose, or motives 
of action, so much stronger and sterner than had ever entered lier 
limited range of teaching. Her bashful meekness prevented her see- 
ing that lier own powers vrere just as great as those of these new 
minds she had not yet read all through, her talents at least equal to 
theirs, who talked so much and so mastei fully. She was perfectly 
overwhelmed by Saffo, though she liked her, and she lost her nerve 
when Saffo tried to make her sail in the clouds wilh her in her bal- 
loon; 

She knew Mrs. Bright to be a genius, if only because she was a 
celebrity, a public character, and therefore she stood in awe of her, 
like the rest, now that she had been, as it were, bullied by Linda into 
revering, as an awful god, that genius which she had before viewed 
only as an attribute, an embellishing gift; as might bo beauty or a 
musical voice. The kind of naturalness of Tante’s manners toward 
the young married girl was most tender, but the celebrity stood in 
the way of familiarity, as fear of transgressing the ” great original 
law ” stood in the way of any complete expansion before Saffo. 

Even ’Rella had her tragedies, and Mr. Bright his science, Adrian 
his greatness, and the children their schools, and their lordly man- 
ner of condemning all recognized canons, and swallowing all for- 
mulae, that is peculiar to the very young. Only Flitters conde- 
scended to be nonsenical, and to forget and make others forget that 
she was a professor, and with Flitters only was she at ease, entirely 
unconstrained, and as free to talk as think. Mr. Carron was one 
exception to the universal assumption or presumption of genius, 
which fact surprised liermione, as he too worked at art and multi- 
plied so much of beauty. He w’as a copyist, they said, perhaps that 
w^as why. She did not fear him; and with him her talk was fluent 
and natural, though serious and kind, as was suitable to his invalid 
condition. He was full of reverence for her, which was another 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


318 

wonderful fact, only to be explained by his being a copyist, and 
therefore no genius. 

“ Among jmu all,” she said to Flitters, “ 1 feel like the little boy 
who went to the virtuous and admirable animals, and asked them 
to play with him. The ant, the bee, and the horse were all busy; 
the dog had to guard his master’s property, etc. You all have your 
careers ” 

“ Well, carry it out,” said Flitters, ” and fit on the moral. Be 
busy yourself. Have a career too, and earn a right to look down 
upon us all. You have the best talents of any of us. There is none 
of us but envies you: we don’t check our envy, we are not so virtu- 
ous; only we are not green enough to admit it — it isn’t our place to 
find ourselves out. You are as much beyond us as the small boy 
was really beyond those dogs, and ants, and donke 3 *s. There are 
only two of us all, Mrs. Bright and your husband, who are any- 
thing more than gas-bags.” 

” Linda Fraser, surely ” began Hermione. 

” Ah! well. I can’t talk here, because I have only the status and 
no- vote of a second-floor lodger, and because she’s your cousin,” 
(aside) ” and something more to somebody else, 1 fear: but in ray 
opinion and in her own, she’s the dorsal fin of the world; she 
thinks so because she’s the great fin and finish of creation; and I 
think so too, because she sets up her back so easily, and swims us 
all down. No oue attempts to stand up to her but Saffo, who, 
with all her gas-bags, isn’t so hollow as Linda Fraser.” 

Flitters looked up, to make sure that Hermione was not really 
offended by her nonsense. She did not like Hermione to think her 
rude, so she turned it off more seriously. 

” Why don’t you really study music? go in for it deeply, profes- 
sionally, and let the world hear your operas, your oratorios?” 

Hermione looked at her in amazement. 

” But jmurself, Day, who are really professional, you have writ- 
ten no operas, no oratorios?” 

” Well, as we are in for disclosures, 1 will let out to you what I 
leave the world to find out. I am in the unpleasant predicament 
of beginning to discover that 1 am no great things.” 

” Perhaps that is the beginning of your greatness,” said Her- 
moine. Flitters shook her head. 

” 1 have no talent; I have learned music for purposes of money- 
making. I had the stock in trade to begin with — a shackly piano, 
plenty of cheek, and ten fingers; and it is pretty fancy-work to 
rattle [the keys about — but for genius— bah! — gas-bags and para- 
chutes — 1 never deceived myself, and nobody else would be deceived 
either, if people were not so absolutely blind— brought up with shut 
eyes. But you are different. In the first place, you have a voice 
among a thousand; secondly, you have, 1 am convinced, a real 
talent for music, and could write Rossini to your own Patti if you 
were only properly trained. You have got the best part of music 
ready-made; I would perfect my talent, if 1 were you, plant it and 
let it grow. You might devote yourself body and soul to that, in- 
stead of flinging yourself before Linda Fraser’s Juggernaut. I 
shock you — 1 have done. One word more. I strongly suspect in 
you a talent for poetry and literature. Why don’t you write, say, 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 349 

a play— to be set to your future music? — fancy writing the libretto 
to one’s own opera!” 

” You are too good to me, Day. 1 am not clever, and 1 don’t 
know how to set about beginning anything. 1 can compose little 
melodies, but I can’t even write them down. I know nothing of 
thorough-bass.” 

” But harmony and thorough-bass can be learned. Even a 
school-girl can learn counterpoint. May learns it, I have learned 
it, and in quick sticks too. The thing is, to know what to do with 
it when you have learned it. The thing is, to be able to make 
melody and glorious harmonies; the rest is merely a question of 
lesson-books, what Mr. Fairfax calls ‘ the smallest part of educa- 
tion, the educational fraction. ’ Anybody can learn to write, but 
everybody can’t write poetry.” 

“And could you teach me the structure of music?” said Her- 
mione, Jeeling a great longing wake up within her, ” 1 should like 
to be your first pupil.” 

” Come along,” said Flitters. And she ” bagged her proselyte.” 

This is Little Flitters’s own expression. In more sedate terms, 
Hermione became Flitters’s pupil in the exact science of music and 
in piano-forte playing; and the conscientious little mistress sent 

her to Signor to learn vocalization, and to Shakespeare for 

poetry. 

“Not that I care about him much,” said Day, “except when 
Ellen Terry makes something ot him; but I’ve always understood 
he’s the best master, A1 in his own line, and one should go to the 
first fiddler always, if one can afford it; and Shakespeare’s cheaper 
than the moderns, though I own to the more expensive taste myself. 
Shakespeare is like the old masters of classical music. You can 
always buy them in the cheap editions. So can you buy a shilling 
Shakespeare for ninepence, while you can’t get Tennyson’s new 
play under seven-and-sixpence.” 

Thenceforward, for Hermione, time rolled on less observedly and 
less painfully, having had his carriage-wheels greased by occupation. 
For not even a heroine can learn music in a minute— though her- 
oines can do things much quicker than most folks — the traditional 
year and a day is'requisite for the preparation of almost any work 
of art. I know Vivian Grey and other such lightning flush genii 
wrote off their bewildering novels in three nights, with the help of 
fervor and a wet towel (to the manifest advantage of the unities); 
yet. in spite of these exceptional cases, 1 hold* with Blake, Pictor, 
Ignotus, that the development and perfecting of a work of art re- 
quires the average of a year and a day; or, say, a leap year. Yes, 
it must take at least that time to cast one’s soul into a certain form; 
that is, if it be really one’s soul that one puts into one’s work, and 
not only a few little scraps of fancy of one’s idle hours. One’s whole 
soul, of course, it cannot be; we can no more pour out the whole of 
that ’subtile fluid at once, than we can expel the w^hole of the air from 
our lungs; thus,' as the philosopher says, “ Disjecta membra are all 
that we find of any poet or of any man;” and this is only the cor- 
ollary of what he has said before of others and of Shakespeare, 

“ He had to write for the Globe play-house; his great soul had to 
crush itself, as it could, into that and no other mold. Ko man 


350 


ADRIAIT BRIGHT. 


works save under conditions. The sculptor cannot set his own 
free Thought before us, but his Thought as he could translate it 
into the stone that was given, with the tools that were given.” To 
which one might add — and colored by the conditions under which 
we receive them. Mendelssohn writes his ” Spring-song ” in the 
cladness of spring-time, out of a sparkling joy that rises in his 
heart as the sap rises in the trees, as the bubbles of air rise to the 
surface of a cup of Alpine water or sparkling wine; but he has 
moods of minor melody as well, he is not all one Hymn of Praise. 
And so Ilermione, out of her saddened, yearning heart, could only 
now draw the minor utterances of patience, the plaintive cadences 
of resignation. We will see how it was with Adrian and his inspira- 
tion of that month. 

Adrian was absorbed in his studio, Hermione stayed more and 
more at home studying her art, and Linda scorned her more and 
more as she worked her own fine anatomical studies, and drawings 
from the round, under Adrian’s eye and guidance; so well and care- 
fully she trained her eye and hand that she even seemed competent 
to advise him. It was a pity she bad not disciplined and rightly 
trained her heart as well; had she done so, having the one great 
motive, that a great man should admire her, she might possibly 
have become a fine artist. Adrian often asked her opinion, and 
each time Hermione came to the studio she was pained to see how 
far she was herself removed from her husband’s intellectual socif^ty, 
how much shut out by Linda’s closer companionship. Linda was 
the grown-up friend, Hermione only the pirettv chihl, or plaything 
of the lighter hours. Yet she would not lightly let herself suspect 
Linda of unfaith to her, of degradation to herself; she only felt a 
shudder at what .she saw in the studio. With what bitterness, 
almost approaching to jealousy, Hermione watched the progress of 
the new statue, this last, on which her Adrian seemed to stake his 
all for fame, the statue her unconscious rival. It was not large, 
but very beautiful. A sitting figure, under life-size, of most exquis- 
ite proportion; the Lorelcy, in all her witchery, gazing, and sing- 
ing, and holding forth her arms, having thrown down her lyre as 
incapable of furthering the passion of her song. 

Hermione had often been asked to come to the studio to sit and 
sing with her guitar, while Adrian studied the mechanism of song. 
He enjoyed these afternoons : calling himself a very Sybarite to 
have such exquisite strains to bathe his art in, as he smiled kindly, 
fondly, on the singer. But Hermione’s was not the expression he 
wanted; he told her she was not wicked enough for the temptress 
Loreley. He wanted to make this statue a miracle of complex ex- 
pression, a whole life-drama concentrated in one figure, and he was 
in a fair way of succeeding. 

” 1 can only take your face for angels, my Hermione, or for a 
sweet Miranda, or — Ophelia,” he added, looking more closely at 
the sweet countenance, where patience had already stampied its 
type upon her fair young face. “ Loreley is more like an exquisite 
mischief: the ruin worked in thoughtless play, the destruction that 
lies under the hollow concave of the world’s pleasure.” 

He talked and laughed to cheer her, reproaching himself for 
leaving her so much alone; and she laughed too; it was so pleasant 


ADRIA>^ BRIGHT. 


351 


to have him glad with her once more, playful and tender. Such 
laughter, like sunshine on the deep sea, was very beautiful to both; 
yet she would have liked him better to image forth the beauty of 
goodness with his matchless talent, and, under her blessed influence 
to-day, he felt this too. A feeling crept over him as if Hermioue 
had somehow risen above him, and were soaring away with new- 
found wings. What if it should really be so, and he were left be- 
hind? He shrank in terror from this thought, and, gazing at her 
fixedly, pushed away his work, his cheek paling with the fear his 
fancy had conjured up. 

He threw a cloth over the figure, and turned to some statuettes of 
Puck, and Robin Goodfellow, and others, Will-o’-lhe-wisp-like fays 
and phantasms; whose range of expression, from roguish mirth and 
childlike playfulness to mischievous fun and spiteful, mocking 
devilry, had first prompted him, under the baleful influence of the 
woman who worked sheer mischief out of a heart emptied of kind 
thought, to contrive to render the sorcery of cruel mischief perfect- 
ly fascinating and beautiful. 

But now hie put aside this statue, and was all Herraione’s once 
more, as he and his wife had one all-perfect hour together; an hour 
that brought back the sweet fragrance of their early marriage days, 
and was as one of them. And Adrian worked as masterly and we 1 
as w’^hen he yielded himself up to the spell of the enchantress, now 
that he was guided by Hermioue back to the bright, hopeful, vivid, 
yet innocent memories of his own boyish feelings, as he modeled 
this child genius from Bobby, his boy cousin, and from himself, as 
he remembered himself when a boy 

Then they called in Bobby, who was never unwdlliug to come and 
be a model when Hermioue was there, for she always put forth all 
her powers to render the seance interesting. With Bobby, of course, 
came Bimbo, who followed him like his shortened shadow ; and then 
there was a great rush as school-time was over, and the rumor 
spread through the house that Ninemine was telling stories to 
Bobby, and that good things were going, and Bimbo and Ninemine 
were making pies and tofee at the studio stove; and half of the 
bakers’ dozen precipitated themselves into the studio to see, and 
hear, and smell, and stuff. Half of the bakers’ dozen 1 say advised- 
ly, for the seventh was torn in pieces belw^een the attractions of toffee 
and tales, and that of a brand-new chemical experiment that was 
going on in Mr. Bright’s own study, that promised to produce fire- 
works for St. Guy Fawkes’ Day in any quantity, at a nominal 
price. 

Adrian had the embarrassment of choice. He was free to roam 
through a wide, fertile field of expression of all conditions of child- 
ish merriment, made available by Hermione’s ingenuity in amus- 
ing. and yet stilling, the spirits. Laughter reigned supreme, as 
cookery and tales were devoured with hearty relish, and nursery 
tea was improvised and made a picnic of. Robin Goodfellow 
earned his cream bowl, duly set there, bodily, as he quaffed the 
sugared compound prepared for “ the boy who stood the stillest for 
Cmisin Adrian to draw:,” or sketch, in rapid clay; and scouts 
hunted the milkman as he purveyed from area to area, and the 
muffin boy was rifled of his store, hid in the green baize veil that 


ABRIAN BRIGHT. 


352 


hides so many of earth’s choicest pleasures— the expected drama, 
the muftius aforesaid, and the harp on board the pleasure stean er. 

In fine, Ilermione stood treat, and the fine arts held impromptu 
festival, and all was mirth and madcap frolic, according as 
Adrian wanted rapid movement, or a happy pose fixed, while he 
made it permanent— a joke immortalized in marble. Young ideas 
were shooting and popping everywhere. It was a liappy time for 
all, this twilight frolic; but it clouded over into night and nightly 
silence when^Linda came in. The tale was hushed, long-worded 
disquisition took the place of jest, and half the little company 
melted away, glided away as elves and fays always do before 
mortals who are not of their fellowship, wdien aesthetic talk took 
the place of art creation. The very apples became apples of discord 
as Adrian gave the Pendragons one huge rosy one to share. 

“ There’s a royal promenade in it," quoth Uther, malcontent. A 
royal promenade is the track of a worm, in case you should not 
know, 

" We’ll divide it there,’’ said Arthur, the divinity student and 
peacemaker, " here’s half the promenade for you, and half for 
me." 

Linda came, saw, admTed, offered her opinion, and ignored the 
little company, now diminished to a third of the whole; just Bobby, 
bound to stand as Puck, and Bimbo, bound to slay and pity him. 
But Bobby was no longer Puck ; the arch Puck smile had died out 
of his fealures; and, while Linda looked critically from the mode) 
to its type idealized in clay, it galvanized itself at intervals under 
bribes and promises into a fixed but stolid grin, as useless as it was 
ugly. Play had departed, and work had come; work, the conse- 
(juence of the fall; and art, the crown, the joy, of work, was dead. 
Better give it up and dismiss Bobby, and take your fill of dismal, 
long-worded talk, was Bimbo’s childish thought, unuttered and un- 
utterable, because the childish innocence was not consolidated into 
thought, much less hardened into words. Thought with children 
is in a liquid state. In those, still children in their innocence, like 
Hermione, it is like jelly, able in cooling to take any form, but al- 
ways clear and crystalline, and amberesque and pleasant; with 
older people it is hardened into bone or stone. 

" Tliat child’s pretty manners are all spoiled," said Linda, of the 
departing Bambino, who turned and gave her an angry look in 
imitation of his model, Bobby. 

Alack-a-day, the children’s hour was spoiled! As Adrian and 
Linda grew absorbed in talk, the playful charm had ceased to work, 
it was swamped in learned art and metaphysics. The children had 
all vanished, and the Loreley injage was unveiled again. Again 
Plermione was useful, but only as the model, the tool; not as the 
friend, the adviser, and the helpmeet, as she had been some short 
while since. She was made to feel her want of relationship to the 
artist in his art; her disconnection with his higher life. Her eyes 
filled with tears as loneliness enshrouded her again. Her charm 
had ceased to work; Linda was the Loreley dragging Adrian deep 
down beneath the flood of art-jargon into the mud of metaph3’^sics. 
She was the " belle dame sans merci" of Rosetti’s picture. 

And Hermione, powerless to save, stood alone in the arid desert; 


ADRIA^q- BRIGHT. 353 

the desert of her own blasted affections. Farewell, the bower of 
love, so twined with flowers. The gourd has withered up, and she 
sits unsheltered in the lonely desert, while he falls a siren’s prey. 
Her voice is sweeter than the siren’s, but it cannot reach him now; 
it will hereafter. There lies lifer only hope. She will slay in Arabia, 
and study, for years it maybe, the highest, deepest, greatest truths, 
that some day she may speak and sing to him; and he may hear, 
listen, and love again. In the desert one can work, evolve tire, and 
by magnetic attraction bring down fire— that is, the spark within 
one’s self will kindle, and call a kindred flaming spirit from the 
skies. Hut tor this hope, Hermione had well- night ivept herself to 
stone. 

“ He cares most for stones, and for Linda, with a heart of stone. 
Farewell now, but I carry no hope away with me. Farewell, fare- 
well!”“ 

These, and many more and unutterable, were her mute thoughts. 
She was full of a great silent misery. Hermione was going aw^ay 
depressed with visions miserable and" forebodings dreary; when, at 
her opening the studio door, in flew the children, all the Pucks, 
and clamored round lier, detaining her by her dress. 

“One more story before you go. Only this one. Just a tiny 
one.” She looked at Adrian, and returned slowly, thoughtfully, 
then sat down with her back to the Loreley statue, and told in a 
low, sweet voice the tale of “ Violin and Violet.” Mr. Bright 
stood in the doorway and listened too. 

“ A poet hung a garland of violets round the neck of a Violin. 
In the purple wreath w^as one white Violet half-hidden by green 
leaves. The white flower loved the Violin, who sang love-songs to 
her, wooing her to breathe ‘ 1 love you too.’ They were wedded, 
and the sound and the scent filled one delicious air. They loved 
like Ferdinand and Miranda, and knew no other needs. But near 
the Violin lay the bow; and the bow was angry, and said to Violet, 

‘ You cannot aid his song nor give him glory; you are merely a use- 
less clog. I am his bride. He needs me to fulfill his being. Go 
elsewhere with your weak vows.’ It was true, though hard, and 
the Vuolet shuddered, withered, died under the ciuel rod. But the 
Violin never let himself again be breatlied through by the fragrant 
air; henceforth he only played in fine frenzy; and he shrieks harsh- 
ly when the bow is not held firmly by a master hand, and his 
sweetest music is a wail.” 

Adrian was much struck by the tale Hermione had told, and by 
the air of sadness in her voice and manner. He understood it was 
a parable, and his heart smote him that he should know it to be so, 
albeit hi» conscience was yet free. But Linda, who felt herself un- 
masked, was very bitter, 

“ Fancy that little creature showing a turn for satire,” said she 
to Adrian. He turned away quickly. 

“ All point and no length in that story,” said Mr. Bright, kind- 
ly. He too, felt it veiled a truth, but he likewise thought Hermione 
unaware that it did so. 

“A story should bo the needle and not the yarn, uncle,” said 
Hermione, trying to escape out into the darkness of the yard, 




354 


ADRIAN- BRIGHT. 


“ A good Story is )ike a needle, and a bad one is the yarn,” said 
Uncle Jos. 

” Papa, Linda says my pretty manners is all spoileded,” cried 
Bambino, innocently. ” But they is all come right again.” 

Adrian was very silent. He had many thoughts. Had he suffered 
himself unconsciously to undervalue his wife? 

Yes, Linda may talk loud and long of Hermione’s want of feeling 
for art, and her ignorance; but, after hearing her stories and her 
songs, Adrian knows that she has the essence of art, its spirit, 
within her, though not its .iargon. The soul is there, but it has not 
been taught to speak in mere lip-knowledge, which is but the cloth- 
ing of art, often its incumbrance. Nor has her spirit learned to 
know itselL Unknown, unrecognized, she has given it all to him. 
His conscience for the first time stabbed him deep. He, who did 
recognize her gihs, her depth of feeling, who should have woke 
them, trained them, taught them, had he only lulled them to sleep? 
while, worst of all, had he unwittingly given her a rival? Not 
Linda, oh, no, he never dreamed of her — but had created for her a 
rival in himself, in bis own powers. Was his own skill, his own 
art, her rival? Had he neglected her for stones? Had he, in foster- 
ing his own genius, unwittingly smothered hers? and did she per- 
ceive this with jealousy and pain? Oh, no. He was sure he 
wronged her, if he fancied her jealous there. She, so loving, will- 
ing, glad to help, so unfeignedly exulting in his talent, as if it were 
a natural putting forth of flowers and fruit, making joyous seasons 
for them both and for the world, so entirely unthoughtful for her- 
self as an individual. He would watch himself narrowly, and if 
need be, judge himself unrelentingly. He had only just this mo- 
ment gained the glimmering revelation of where he had been 
wrong. He had truly been an idolater; but it was no other woman 
whom he idolized, nor w’as it the stone he worshiped; it was his 
own skill, his own brain, his own soul, that there stood manifest, 
and that he gloried should be manifest to the world. But for his 
love; ah! that was hers only, and none other’s. 

(Inly Linda felt with him in his work, and he fancied his wife 
did not. 

And she, did she really hate the idol? a hatred as foolish anrl 
wrong as worship would be foolish and sinful: a reversed form of 
idolatry. She did not hate the Loreley stone because it was not 
her own graven image; but her pure soul shrank from the evil 
spirit in the stone, the tempting fiend; and she instinctively felt 
Linda’s subtly baleful influence, creating and vivifying the evil 
spirit. 

She would have loved the stone for his sake, and for his reasons 
have gloried in it, only she fancied she saw in it her rival creeping 
subtly and strangling his belter self, while he let himself be half 
persuaded that his wife had no soul, no deeper feelings; that she 
was only her mother’s daughter, the world’s nursling. 

So apt is our fanc}', when it is only another name for prejudice, 
to run away with us, to bolt, to rear, and we are thrown. Adrian 
lost his way upon earth when he let his heart and his eyesight drill 
eo deeply into the stone. 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


355 


♦ 

CHAPTER XLVII. 

*• I can say with a full heart I love him, and have never ceased to love him. 
He was the first who taught me to weigh my words, and to be cautious in my 
statements. As to doctrine, he was the means of great additions to my 
belief.”— Cardinal Newman. 

A NOTE from Little Flitters was put into Hermione’s hands next 
morning directly she w’as up. Something had happened at that 
house, would Hermione come to her? 

What could it be? It might be a broken leg — “or a broken 
heart,” suggested Adrian. 

Hermione would not w’ait, even for their early breakfast, but 
would go at once. 

Arrived at the house, Flitters could not see her immediately, but 
asked her to wait a few minutes while she w'as occupied with that 
poor Mr. Carron, who had been taken violently ill early this morn- 
ing. He was ill, and had been distressingly so all night; yet he 
had insisted on getting up to work on a plate that must be finished 
before Christmas, and the strain of the effort had brought on a suc- 
cession of fainting-fits that alarmed the whole house. 

Miss Fraser had heard talking in the hall, and, recognizing her 
cousin’s voice, came out and asked Hermione to come into her room. 

Linda looked stern and solemn. There -were great dark rings 
round her dark eyes — those brilliant eyes, that in Saffo were so 
kindling and so kindly — showing that Linda had passed a wakeful, 
restless night; not, indeed, of self-examination, self-reproach, but 
of savage anger that she had been discovered; w’raththat Hermione 
had had the penetration to read her evil, criminal thoughts and 
passions. Linda stood and looked, stared on Hermione, still standing. 

“ How dared you make me tlie subject of your flimsy tales, in- 
sinuate that I was a fit subject for outrage in your parables. An- 
swer for it to me.” 

Hermione spoke slowly, firmly, though lier knees shook under her, 
and her heart seemed to stop beating "after one great throb. The 
color left her face. 

“Linda, you are injuring yourself as well as me. I saw you 
understood me last night. I meant you to see that light had been 
thrown out to me upon your injurious working against my peace. I 
also meant to warn you.” 

“Let us have done with all this puny sentiment, these fables 
and nonsense of words and warnings,” cried Linda, impetuousl}’, 
“ and come to truth. I loved my cousin Adrian Bright— I have 
loved him from a child ; and think you that the accidental fact of 
liis marriage with you can change a love like mine? a love that is 
lasting as it is intense?” 

Hermione, who never dreamed that Linda’s sin against her went 
so far as this, was horror-stricken at the shamelessness of this 
avowal. 

“ It had been better for him had he wedded me, who recognize 
the great immortal artist in liim, while you only see in him your 
husband. Whose love is least unselfish, yours or mine? Besides, 
he loved me before ever he saw your baby face.” 

“ Oh, no, no!” cried Hermione. “ Never, I will not believe it,” 


356 


A.DE1AN BRIGHT. 


and she did uot; but she spoke imploringly. She wanted the cruel 
word unsaid. But Linda was hard and pitiless in her lie — and she 
lied again. 

“ yes, he loved me. Thank God, he loves me still.” And she 
looked round to see her cousin crushed. She was mistaken. 

Hermione tired up like a lioness in defense of her loved ones. She 
refuted the assertion, called proudly on Linda for proof of what her 
engagement to another, before Adrian ever saw Hermione, itself dis- 
provkl; for, loving Adrian as she said, she never would have prom- 
ised herself to another had there been the slightest chance of win- 
ning him. And when Linda produced her lying evidence, her falsest 
witness, the wife demolished it word by word; and, her case once 
established for Adrian’s complete defense, she summed up her judg- 
ment, her first tremors of speechlessuess being over, and then she 
poured forth a sweeping, scalding flood of proof that such accusation 
could not be, in passionate coherence, being mistress of her facts and 
of her faith. No law'yer could have been more acute, more subtile, 
in remembrance of time and place for purpose of disproof. Alibi 
was established everywhere, for the smallest details of her joy and 
sorrow lived in the young wife’s memory. Excitement, though she 
could scarcely support herself to stand and talk, gave her a keenness 
of thought and utterance that seemed as if she had seen through 
glass every moment of Adrian’s life when away from her, so clearly 
did she read his heart and the moments of his genius. Love seemed 
to inspire her with a spirit of perception and insight almost pro- 
phetic. Linda started, turned pale, and trembled, as she thought 
her cousin’s eyes had really been fixed upon her in those guilty mo- 
ments when vainly she tried to gam from Adrian what it was not 
lawful for him to give. 

Hermione showed no bruises. It was a relief to her thus to pour 
herself out in vindication of her absent love. It warmed her blood, 
she, who had lately been sensible of chill and emptiness of life; 
when memory had only been a consciousness of something gone, of 
“some lost bliss.” 

It was joy to her to pour forth in utterance each fresh proof that 
Adrian loved her still, her only, and intensely. It was food and 
wine to her. She reasoned, she pleaded, to convince herself; at 
times she even forgot Linda, who felt awed and cowed before her. 
Could this orator, this tragedian, be Hermione? Was she so keen- 
sighted? and now, was she so right? Was she indeed possessed of 
that great heart which beats forth in a life and power above all 
knowledge? Ay, this was love, true love. Then what was her 
own feeling, which was not at all like this, and which cared most 
for possession? It was idolatry, which means covetousness. It was 
not love. 

Linda felt humiliated, but stubborn. Vanquished, she still held 
herself loftily, and as if the victor. She stood like Pallas before 
Paris, while he gave judgment against her, “ with snow-cold breast 
and angry cheek,” but only in appearance lofty. Inwardly she 
loathed herself for loving where she might not, and scorned herself 
for being weak enough to let her rejection be discovered. Ay, 
there M'as her shame. Yet the more she was crouched and was 
humbled before her, the more she hated Hermione. It was uot in 


357 


ADRIAN BRD4HT. ' 

her nature to let herself he conquered by the reasoned right, nor to 
let the wrong she had herself done lie unavenged upou another. 
Whatever her passion was, for the time, she gave herself up bound 
to it, and forgot all freedom, all duty paths elsewhere. Coals of 
tire she felt indeed (for Hermione had always been sweet and gentle 
with her), but they maddened her to cast them back. Some one 
must be sacrificed on the altar of her passion. And Linda lied 
again. 

“ But for all this he loves me still, he told me so even yesterday. 
Your words cannot change that fact.’’ 

Hermione was dumb. "^She had no strength of words left her to 
contend with such determined obstinacy. She was at once stunned, 
as the dread suspicion crept over her. She could not speak with 
fervor now, any more than an upright lawyer can, who doubts the 
innocence of his client. 

“lam going out now,” said Linda, coldly; “I have no longer 
time to admire your rhapsodies.” 

The lie was not even now confessed; it could not be, it were 
harder now. Hermione stood still in the middle of the room, seem- 
ing not to hear; she was fixed externally to marble, as her spirit 
was frozen to despair. 

Linda went away. The young wdfe was left to commune with 
herself. She was fearless, rigid, in her bitter pain; but words 
broke out at last. 

“Must my hand never clasp his again in perfect trust!” 

Her heart was like to break. Oh, ""if she could have died trusting 
him! The blow that can break a young heart is of crushing 
weight, yet not strong enough to bruise the serpent Doubt, that fas- 
cinates all powei’ out of its victim before it stings to death. Her 
thoughts burst out at intervals in broken sentences. Words were a 
relief to the over charged heart. 

“ That while I speak of it a little while. 

My heart may wander from it’s deeper woe,” 

says the poet, he who feels and sympathizes. It is the fashion 
among critics to decry soliloquy as unnatural; but is not this the 
opinion of thoughtlessness or inexperience? Truly, we are in these 
days verv little 'tempted to it, for soliloquy favors feeling and self- 
search, both of which we endeavor to drive away; and, having no 
audience, our utterances lose their power of flattering our vanity, 
since they can only convince ourselves, or condemn as often as they 
convince. 

Under the influence of keen feeling, of gladness, sorrow, or in- 
jury, we, all of us, at times rush to solitude in order that we may 
give expression to the over charged heart. We can hardly style as 
soliloquy our utterance of thanksgiving, for that is rather holding 
speech with One invisible who has acted graciously toward us. But 
in solitude, under possession of angry or sad emotion, we all speak, 
and even act, to ourselves with declamatory power or excited move- 
ment. Even in ordinary circumstances, who has not in the street 
passed men muttering to themselves, or met such in the daily omni- 
bus or train, or half-lonely on the sea-beach, or quite lonely in a 
foreign town? 

Can w'c for a moment suppose that Byron sat for hours on that 


358 


ADRIAK BRIGHT. 


tomb in Harrow Hill clmrcliyard, without uttering the feelings 
wrought in him by those vigorous hopes of achievement which were 
within him, made yet more vivid by the soft, sylvan beauty of that 
vale of Thames, the glowing color of the sunset sky, and the sensa- 
tion of his difference to those gay comrades, whose shouts he heard 
in the cricket-field below? And each of those gay brethren in turn 
would himself be led by an impulse calling his desire for sympathy 
inward, so that he might be his own best friend. Or later in life he 
might return, as Byron did, in person, or in memory, to Harrow 
Hill, and breathe out feeling, tender, sad, or even pensive, in sweet 
words moistened by the heart’s condensation, in vaporized thoughts 
— words softly tender as our Byron’s, if less musical, the soul’s pul- 
sations less accurately numbered; with melted fancy, warm as his, 
and as necessary for the soul’s health to be put in exercise once and 
then forgotten; or twice, and then half remembered; if many times 
in use, the feeling takes form and becomes what is known as the 
temperament of a poet. Joy seldom speaks alone. Sorrow finds 
sympathy in soliloquy. One’s own speech is soothing because it 
joins in the sorrow, shares it. 

To turn to other poets, those who see deepest. 

Can we suppose that Shakespeare never uttered to himself the 
mystical solitary talk he puts in flamlet’s mouth, or that Robinson 
Crusoe never talked to himself, for Crusoe is the poetic child of a 
true poet? Did not David cry out in his regal loneliness for the 
wings of a dove? Men may be lonely mute, or self-restrained 
through pride, but he who never communes with himself has either 
never yet felt passion, or else he is a scoffer. 

Looking upon soliloquy as part of the mere machinery of a tale, 
it were just as easy to furnish your speaker with a confidant, as in 
the artificial French drama; but it would not be so true to life. 
We do not study nature from the French, in landscape, literature, 
or the drama, much as we admire the skillful and artistic arrange- 
ment and execution of their works of art. The English and French 
schools of thought are so entirely different in their aim, that, 
though we may learn much from each other, the attempt to blend 
their qualities enfeebles both. Our nationalism should, and must, 
be kept as distinct from French bright artificiality as from German 
obscurity. Our native keenness and honesty make us see the bear- 
ings of nature on art more truly than they do who err on either side, 
and fit nature to their theories. AVe are elastic and pliant (and 
maybe unprejudiced) enough to vary with ever-varying nature. 
Shakespeare is our man, not Goethe or Racine. French art inclines 
to form visible, as in painting, acting, etc. ; German to form mys- 
tical, as in poetry and music. It is only cynics, and the discon- 
tented, who say we English have no art at all. 

Had it been a less killing wound that she had received, Her- 
mione, in her new found power of poetry, might have written a 
great verse after her scene with Linda. The lesser poets, and those 
who have not yet felt deeply, can comfort themselves in this way, 
and so can the half-slain, when once Time has healed them to his 
best, when his grateful salve has been laid on, and the pain is lulled. 

But Hermoine’s wound is too fresh, too agonizing, too sore, for 
verse. She only feels the shock and the stab, as she is left alone to 


ADTlTA^r BRIGHT. 


359 

.1 sense of something she has not — had not — yes, it was hers, that 
she knows — that past, (It is hers still — a lie cannot deprive her of it 
— can she but perfect her faith.) But the sense of her lost joy makes 
time present doubly bitter. 

She stood there while a great wave of sorrow passed over her. The 
joy of life had passed her by, forgotten her, unloved, neglected, while 
yet in the early bloom of her youth. If she were thus useless and a 
burden to Adrian now, what would she be through those long, long 
years, when her beauty should have faded through grief? “ Ah, I 
will leave him, I will give him up to her,” was her first impulse, 
not her thought. And now what should she do? The young heart 
in its trouble always seeks to do something, to shake off something, 
some restraint, feeling its sorrow gall it. We do not learn to sit 
down in patient waiting, hoping for a relief whose way is not clear 
to us, until we are much older than Hermione. Yes, she would 
leave them, the bridal home and all, and go and hide herself, per- 
haps in the cottage by the Devon shore, and await an early death, 
wdiich should leave him free. 

She would go away — not to her mother; she shrank from that, 
from laying bare her wounds. But she was wounded, and, like a 
sick or w'ounded animal, she wanted to hide herself. She felt a 
yearning, pitying tenderness for him whom she had not been able 
to satisfy. She attributed no share of blame to him. How could 
she once have hoped to fill the burning heart of so great a genius? 
To soar with him? Why did she ever undertake what was impossi- 
ble for so small a one as she? How could the eagle mate with the 
linnet? They might, perhaps, meet again in Paradise, life’s fever 
over; when art had passed into perfection, and the wild battle of 
genius for its fame was fought and won. By and by, when all was 
peace, and her soul should be elevated, purified, by death, she 
might again meet him and see him with enlightened eyes, when 
both should be transfigured. Then she should sing to him again, 
and her voice, that he liad loved so well, should sound like an 
angel’s voice. 

She meditated long in a day-dream, out of which she woke to find 
her anguish unabated, still to feel herself the victim of a cruel 
treachery on the part of a woman, her friend, her relative. 

She never blamed Adrian for an instant; she knew he loved her 
truly, but like a child; and she felt he needed a higher companion 
than a mere child for his love, and helper to be great. Hers was 
such deep humility of soul. She thought the fault w\as hers for be- 
ing so weak and so unworthy; not his, not theirs, for being blind. 

Then in came Day Flitters to find her, and ask her to take her 
place as nurse to the sick youth up-stairs, -while she w’as compelled 
to be away. 

Hermione -u'as able to be calm in speech and outw^ard appearance, 
and she w\as believed to find an outlet for her longing to do some- 
thing, to have some manifest duty thrown upon her hands, that might 
make waiting, before her decision for her own course, easier. She 
need not decide at once. Wliile silently w^atching, she might think 
things out, and perhaps see her way more clearly than during her 
first passion of regret. The higher life of charity called her out of 
the ashes of her sorrow, raised her from the dust of her humiliation. 


360 


ADRTAK BRIGHT. 


Flitters took her iip-stairs. 

What brought the illness on?” Hermione asked, 

“Oh, poor fellow! in liis condition, anything, a mere nothing, 
•would bring on an attack. He prepares for it by 'v\'orking so hard. 
But I have my suspicions that Linda Fraser was the direct cause.” 

“ Linda Fraser!” 

“ Yes, you know, or perhaps you don’t know, that he is dying of 
love for her. And she knows nothing of it, and doesn’t w\ant to 
know. Well, yesterday, that huge, horrid Mr. Esdaile” — Little 
Flitters said horrid in such a hasty and peculiar manner that even 
Hermione noticed it, preoccupied as she was. It sounded as if she 
did not quite mean “ horrid,” but something else that she could 
give no name to — “ Mr. Esdaile had been innocently talking of 
Linda’s engagement to Mr. Raby, and of her ill-behavior in throwing 
him over — if she really has thrown him over; for there is no know 
ing. She is carrying-on with that Mr. Prothero-AVilson. He calls 
here nearly every day; three times a w^eek at least. The story of 
this, and his feelings altogether, were too much for poor Carron. 
He went into a most excited state about it, and Mr. Esdaile sent up 
to me. I came, saw, and blew" him up, till the poor monster was 
quite humble, and then sent him about his business; for poor Car- 
ron couldn’t bear the sight of him. Then, W'ell, I made a night of 
it; and that is all.” 

Hermione expected to find Walter Carron ill, exhausted, perhaps 
insensible. He had been so, and torn with repeated shocks of pain ; 
but Flitters, that good little angel in “ skimpy ” raiment, had been 
with him many hours, ministering to him with the skill and kind- 
ness of a Sister of Charity, and brouglit him through the night of 
suffering. He w'as sitting up dressed upon his sofa, with his 
crutches by his side as usual, looking very shadowy and worn, but 
pleased to see Hermione, wiiose quiet manner and pleasant talking 
ahvaj’S soothed him. Perhaps in their kinship of unhappiness they 
might calm each other. 

His flowers w'ere grouped round him by the thoughtful Little 
Flitters. A hired nurse never thinks of these delicate, small atten- 
tions, which cheer the path of pain as wild flowers cheer the dusty 
road. Carron loved flowers, as an artist, but he did not let them 
wither and die under his use as many an artist does the unfortunate 
plant lie buys to paint and slay. After the small orange-tree has 
represented in one work (possibly not immortal) the w’hole glad 
vegetable kingdom of the sunny South, it dies of drought and foul 
atmospheric conditions in the gassy, north (ill) lighted studio; wdien 
the asphodel has bloomed on canvas as the flow^ery fields of Enna, 
it becomes a dry bulb for the studio mice to mistake for a tasty onion. 

Not so Carron; he cultivated flowers with knowledge, and they 
became as friends to him, to cheer him and be of service to him, 
and he loved to share their beauty with his friends. He often gave 
flowers to Flitters and to Linda Fraser for their use and personal 
adornment. 

“ Yet she tiever offers him a foot of space in her greenhouse,” 
said Flitters, angrily, “although it is an unfurnished plant-house all 
the winter. She never thinks of any one but herself.” 

They all lived alone in that full house, each one iw the isolation 


ADKIAK BKIGHT. 361 

of independeace; and the engraver loved to talk with any of his few 
visitors after his hours of silent, thouglufiil toil; when he could 
meet with a sympathetic listener who encouraged him in his aspira- 
tions towards art; or who cherished poetry, science, anything, in 
fact, that could lift him out of his weary, pain-stricken self. Little 
Flitters was a good companion, and he loved and respected her in- 
tensely, as one whose counselor was her owm quick brain; her min- 
ister, her ow'n right hand; one alone with her own resources, and 
no money to back hqr, as Linda Fraser had, who was independent 
even of her work — which all the rest of them in that house lived by. 
But, in his weak state. Flitters was sometimes too start linor, too 
jerky, for his nerves; even as Bobby Bright, who, once before, 
■when Carron "was ill, told him in a consolatory way what all tlie 
kings of England died of, so eager is the schoolboy age to make 
eveiy branch of study useful. 

When Carron wearied of his lonely yet joyful task, that of re- 
echoing beauty, to send its repetitions out multiplied to the world; 
he felt the need of a quieter companionship, such as is found in 
books, which speak of great and greater things, offering heaped 
store of wit and wisdom; and even greater need of some kind and 
intelligent companion with whom he could sift tJiis store in quiet 
converse. This he enjoyed most of all with Adrian, feeling the 
strong support of a brother in him; and with Mrs. Bright, when 
she could spare the time; or with Hermione, wdio felt gladl to be of 
use, and help to soothe some of his weary hours of pain. Her- 
mione, with her artlessness, her winning w’ays and heavenly smile, 
w'as as the presence of the Madonna to" one who had no sister, nor 
mother, nor young boy-brother, to keep open the fountains of affec- 
tion and tenderness, not only for nature, but for human nature; 
that in many deformed or crippled bodies is likely|to dry up or coag- 
ulate round the heart of him 'v\dio has only himself to love and 
pity. She, with her delicate tact, never jarred upon his open 
wounds, never rubbed a sensitive spot in his uneasy personality. 
She saw the best of him at all times, and she saw that the best ■vs'as 
ineffably patient and beautiful. And he appreciated Hermione as 
she deserved. He could recognize in this fair being a sister spirit. 
Indeed, it was one of those spiritual affinities that play a more 
important part in the history of our lives, actual or potential, than 
is ever duly taken into account. 

“ She has the modesty of great imagination,” said Walter Carron, 
speaking of Hermione; and so had he; but none recognized it in 
either of them, as he was only a copyist, and physically unable to 
carry upward his own conceptions; and she — was not trained at a 
High School, nor under a great name, nor a great body of little 
names. No master, nor no school, would be glorified through her, 
nor praise themselves in praising her. 

These two were both humble and reverent; but that did not make 
them less capable of the good that they knew how to venerate. Her 
longing was that she might be worthy to be loved by the best and 
greatest, by the one she knew and recognized as such, the Bezaleel, 
the Phidias, of her day; while for him, Carron the copyist, his soul 
went ever out and up in Botticelli’s prayer: “ Oh, King of kings, and 
Lord of lords, who alone rulest always in eternity, and who cor- 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


362 

rectest all our wauderings, giver of melody to the choir of augels, 
listen thou a little to our bitter grief, and come and rule us, oh, 
thou highest king, with thy love which is so sweet!” But then he 
had trained himself in idealism of the greatest spirits, and especially 
in fortitude, which he not only emrraved (reading, in the copies he 
took, all that Botticelli and other great evangelists had meant 
him to learn thereby), but perpetually exercised ; strengthening him- 
self therein daily with passion and patience which manifested them- 
selves in his art; noble passion, tender patience. 

lie was working on a little ivory box when Ilermione entered, en- 
graving its cover with a pathetic story of Ginevra, the young bride 
of an hour, fastened down forever in the ponderous coffin of a chest, 
entered in pure thoughtlessness and sport. The tale was borne in 
upon him to engrave, he could not choose but draw it; but it was 
with a foreboding melancholy that had its seat close b}^ the fount 
of tears. The tale had reference to Linda Fraser, to his hidden 
love, and to a sad and self-made fate which he was too true a lover 
not to divine and to bewail for her sake. 

I forbear to follow Linda Fraser through her day, with the con- 
sciousness of many evil words and deeds upon her as a heavy bur- 
den ; and the humiliation that must inevitably follow her next step, 
whichever way she took it. Her hand, in drawing from the round 
to-day at the British Museum, had not its usual steadiness, its proud, 
determined blackness in the shadows, which she mistook for power. 
And Adrian did not come to-day to notice whether she drew well or 
ill. 

At one time she half-determined to marry George Baby, and 
leave all the mischief she had made to right itself, while she dwelt 
sheltered in remote Yorkshire. Then the misery, the isolation, the 
deathliness, of such a life scared her, for she had only the profess- 
ing artist’s fictitious sympathy with nature, and none with human 
life, but only with its turmoil; and her mind fled to a fine house 
she knew of at lioehampton, where she would be welcome as its 
mistress. She had seen the mansion; for, closely veiled, she had 
gone there once alone, and looked at it and its dependencies, and 
thought they might well satisfy a greater one than she. But the 
master. It was he to whom she shuddered to tie herself for life, his 
mind was so insufferably small ; so mean his habits, so cramped his 
tastes. 

When she let herself in by her latch-key she heard music up- 
stairs, singing, and the guitar. Yes, it was her cousin’s voice. Then 
had she no heart to be wounded, ah,er all, that she so soon consoled 
herself? or had the arrows fallen short? and was her faith in her 
Adrian unshaken and immutable! Why should these people all be 
happy, and why not she? She had grown morbidly selfish through 
living so much alone, and bitter beyond conception. She would 
make Adrian join her at the museum to-morrow, and something 
should be decided, she hardly cared what it might be. Yet she had 
even now a noble choice, if she would seek such, or take it. She 
might give of her strength to this young, crippled artist; her sym- 
pathy would be enough, a small portion of her society, merely to let 
his eyes rest upon her firm, strong frame, her beautiful, richlv-col- 
ored face, and they might both be blest. He the complement of her, 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


363 


as she the opposite of him. But in her deep self-satisfaction she 
craves no complement, no rounding of her being; she is no half 
that seeks its partner for its perfecting. She thinks herself already 
complete, and only looks for luxury, or this ^vork^s greatness. To 
the perfecting of her own nature she blindly prefers money, power, 
and Prothero- Wiison — whom she must take with these. But how 
could Walter Carron divine which was the favored lover? or guess 
that she meant to lower herself by a marriage like the one she had 
in contemplation — to sell herself for a fine house and upholstery, 
for coach-Iiouses and stables. He seldom saw Linda; I doubt if lie 
had ever even spoken to her, yet he knew. The magnetic influence 
of love is very subtile, its thought-reading very accurate, and those 
who lie on the border-land of t.he grave have often a prophetic pre- 
science beyond knowledge. When he engraved the ivory cover of 
the box which was meant to hold the small gold plate of Linda’s 
Iiortrait, his hand and mind would not work in other lines than the 
fatal story of Ginevra; because, in marrying Prothero- Wilson he 
felt she was shutting herself up in death, as truly coffined as he soon 
would be, with only her picture above the burial-chest. His 
thoughts and forebodings were more exiiausting than his pain. 
Hermione saw this, so she offered to read to him from a volume of 
Carlyle lying near, and their talk only rose out of what they read; 
Hermione trying always to soothe, if she could not keep his 
thoughts tranquil and impersonal. 

“ I shall be of those who die without victory,” he said. “ Neither 
victory nor the Abbey is for me. But I have lived in peace, injur- 
ing none. Some deformed or maimed lives avenge themselves on 
nature and on man in small revenge, called spite. I have tried 
through life to do the minor good, since the great victories are de- 
nied ,me. I have not held the mirror up to nature, but to my 
brother man, that he might be seen in it darkl3^ This glass comes 
between us engravers and the joy of fame — we win neither fame 
nor aught else. The utmost the world says of us is that we are 
diligent transcribers; perhaps they may gift us with some aesthetic 
feeling—” 

“ Yet your names will be remembered,” said Hermione, soothing 
the captiousness of failing power. “ Posterity will honor you. 
What should we not give now for a graving on some rock, an out- 
line of the works of Apelles or Protogenes? They are entirely 
dead; an engraver might have made them immortal.” 

“ Oh, the praise of posterity is as the planting of mummy wheat,” 
said he, querulously. 

“Then you engravers translate great works for us, and unveil 
them by degrees, showing us the best part of their meaning, which 
is seldom read by the casual observer of the painting. AYe cannot 
quickly judge a great work, nor can we trust the newspapers to 
judge it for us — 1 know that by my husband’s finest statues; and 
if it" be, as Carlyle sa3^s here, ‘a poem, a living creation won from 
the empyrean by the silent and long-continued toil of its author,’ 
who are we that we can or dare judge of it at all? You engravers 
are teachers who show us what is to be learned by the greatest work.” 

“ If we all tried to raise our works above this world’s judgment, 
they might, perhaps, be worthy of a higher tribunal/^ said he, 


ABliTAK BRIGHT. 


364 

painfully feeling that even his own peculiar power was failing him, 
*‘liis reaches of pleasurable fancy and his precision of unerring 
hand;” by and by he might even fail in truth and vitality. 

Slie pursued her artless, soothing flattery, if such it can be called 
which was true, and meant as true. She would talk on art now, 
having learned much by living with Adrian, and in following her 
own studies. 

“Then, with you engravers,” she continued, “it is as sometimes 
a great book may have a greater reader, as Shakespeare read Boc- 
caccio. Often it is not what is really there, but what the reader 
puts in it of his own thought or fancy, rounds it with, fills it with, 
as it were, that is fine.” 

“Blessed Homer and Dante, then,” said he, smiling, “about 
whom so many fine thoughts have had time to cling, like moss or 
ivy. Poor, unlucky, young, little we.” 

She read another half page of “Sartor Resartus;” then he 
wearied, and sank back on his cushions, laying down his graving- 
tool, and they were very quiet. Her thouglits fled back to her own 
troubles, as an exile’s to his native land that he has left in civil war. 

“ You will come and see me again to-morrow?” he asked, eagerlj*', 
as she looked at her watch on hearing Little Flitters’s quick, bus- 
tling footstep overhead. 

The sweet voice quivered, that had kept up so steadily, so 
bravely, during their talk and reading. 

“ 1 am going away,” she replied, so sadly that he looked at her 
closely. 

He saw tliat she, too, had pain, anxiety; and, in grateful friend- 
ship, longed for a clear-sightedness to hold out light over her path 
and smooth it witli wise counsel. He ventured a chance shot. 

“ 1 would stay at my post,” he said, almost as if he w’ere speaking 
of himself, “ and not be missing when the roll is called, even though 
the medals should not be distributed till later.” 

“ The shot has told,” he said to himself, as he watched her chang- 
ing face. “ I pray that I may have turned aside some danger from 
her.” Then, aloud, he said, in the impersonal tone of a merely lit- 
erary remark, “I remembered that idea from one of your songs, 
that spirited national song which 1 liked so much. It would do me 
good to hear another song, if ^mu can sing after all your kindness in 
waiting so long wuth me.” 

She took uj) the guitar that alw’ays lay ready for her in his room, 
and after a prelude or two, during which she choked back her owm 
grief in trying to lighten his, she sang a favorite «ong of his, the 
“ Serenade at jMalaga,” in her own music, to her own soft words. 
She sang to him uniil he slept, and then she gently made up his fire 
and waited for Flitters or the landlady to relieve her guard. 

He slept. For the startled moment when she turned to look at 
him, after a deep, long pause of i-etrospection, she thought he w’as 
dead, he w.as so pale, so still. To die did not seem so very dreadful, 
as she looked at the thin, wan face, now softened in its lines, and 
smiling like a fair girl’s. From it her glance fell on the long, ema- 
ciated fingers that might never again do their beautiful work. 

The ivory box had fallen from his liand. That was the light 
pound which had startled her to look at him so closely, to reassure 


, ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


365 


herself tliat he still lived. If this "^’ere death, then death is the Ihresli- 
old of peace. Ah, she would go away and die, and Adrian should 
love her dead, and carve an exquisite tomb for her in his heart, and 
he should rush, living, on to fame. She liad doubled her life in love 
and marriage, and it was now as if half her life were cut off, she 
felt so maimed ; a whole life, as hers had previously existed, was 
now lost. She remembered Flitters’s advice that she should fill up 
the vacant, desert places in her time with art; but no, she could not 
eke out her imperfect life with music and tags of verse, singing her 
own dirge in Ophelia’s "way. No, she must hide her shame of loss, 
hide her discrowned head, and die. 

“ She waited still, she would not leave her post by the sufferer 
until relieved. Her kindness was not dead nor dried up, although 
the heart wnthin her was scorched and withered. The gentle virtues 
do not cease to exist when the great good of all is gone. Their 
music is not silenced; it may be" pianissimo, but it is there. Her- 
mione prepared the medicines and stimulants, and lightly felt the 
pulse to assure herself that all was as yet safe. As she gently laid 
down the hand she saw a few words feebly traced on a slip of pa- 
per. They were the first words of the unaccompanied trio from 
“ Elijah ” that Saffo, Hermione, and Flitters sometimes sang in that 
room: “Lift thine eyes; oh, lift thine eyes unto the heavens.” 
They rang through Plermione’s brain for many hours, haunting her 
like a spirit-call — to be interpreted, like most sibylline calls, two 
ways.” 

Enter Saffo and Flitters gently, but flaming. They had been 
talking of Linda and poor 'Carron. Saffo would have had Linda 
marry him at once, malcjre tout. 

“But suppose she won’t. She never will do what is simpl}'- 
right.” Saffo’s ideas and Linda’s and the w^orld’s differed as to the 
“simple right.” It is also a question if the right ever is simple. 

“ She ought to sacrifice herself. I only wish I could do it for her. 
If I could personate her so as to satisfy that poor boy, I’d call in a 
priest at once.” 

“ As if he were a policeman,” said Flitters. 

“ Don’t be flippant.” 

But, the idea having entered her head, Saffo impulsively went up 
to Carron, and proposed to marry him herself. At first he took her 
for Linda, for in some respects they were much alike. 

“Ah, you are kinder than she,” murmured the dying artist. “ It 
liad been good for me had it been you I loved. But we can’t change, 
you see.” 

“Yes,” said Saffo, simply. “It is a great pity we cannot be 
trusted by Heaven to manage these things properly. Heaven has to 
make the marriages, because we should let so much of worldly 

wisdom intervene.” 

CHAPTER XLVIII. 

“ Je sais qn’il ne tiendrait qu’ a moi, 

De r6pouser, si elle voulait.” 

Hekr GnOLLENicnT was in Little Flitters’s small sitting-room. 
Nowhere else did the bulky German look so big, perhaps in con- 
trast to his miniature hostess*, for the room itself was none so tiny; 
it was tlie grand piano that left in it so little space. He_was not 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


366 

giving Flitters a lesson, but lie had good-naturedly come at her 
request to give his judgment on Hermione’s composition. It was a 
set of songs, principally to her own w’ords, and Flitters, thought 
very well of them herself: but, for Hermione’s encouragement, she 
wanted to have her opinion confirmed by that of the great professor. 
The Herr of golden moments was nothing loath to give Flitters one 
of her finishing touches at her own lodgings, and to stay as long 
afterward as she detained him. Flitters had had frequent visitors 
lately. How was it nobody minded climbing up so many stairs? 
Uncarpeted stairs, too; and, really, what was there to like in Little 
Flitters’s sherry. It washed down a hearty meal of a mixed biscuit, 
a relish at fivepence a pound, tasting of the cupboard, and that is 
all that any but good judges of wine would have said for the vint- 
age. But these good judges came and tasted it over and over again, 
and seemed to like it. Flitters herself thought it must be an 
acquired taste; but then she was not a judge; she only bought the 
cheapest sorts in blind faith, as the advertisement pronounced them 
the best that could be had for the money. It may not have been 
entirely the sherry that they came for. Indeed, they never hinted 
that they wished for sherry; and middle-aged gentlemen, as portly 
as Herr Grollenicht, are seldom so fond of fivepenny biscuits. *1. 
think they climbed the stairs because Flitters amused them, and 
people of a certain turn of mind will go anywhere for amusement. 
The professor gave a very favorable verdict upon Hermione’s com- 
positions, corrected a few errors of counterpoint, and predicted a 
future for the young composer. This was safe. 

Mr. Fairfax called and was shown up, or, rather, sent up. 
Jemima Bann seldom went up so high as the second floor with a 
visitor. Hearing Herr Grollenicht’s hearty bass voice rolling with- 
in, he meditated withdrawal, when the professor came out laughing 
and talking, with a bundle of papers under his arm, and Flitters* 
was laughing abundantly too. Mr. Fairfax had called, so he said, 
simply to ask a question — a simple question — he would not detain 
her a minute. Herr Grollenicht found he had a few last words to 
say— concerning the music — as he turned and reopened the piano. 

“ Here’s another. I declare,” said Flitters, looking over the balus- 
ters at some one filling up the whole staircase, and shaking it like an 
earthquake. Seeing the new applicant for her attention. Flitters 
said, “ 1 feel like a lawyer or a consulting physician in a large way 
of practice,” 

It was only Mr. Esdaile come up to ask if he might go in and see 
jMr. Carron, as he had come to town for the cattle-show. No. 
Flitters did not think that poor Mr. Carron was equal to receiving 
any visitors; he was very weak and ill. 

The burl}^ Yorkshireman’s countenance fell. Then there w'as 
nothing for him to do but test the strength of the staircase in going 
down again, and leave those other two men there basking in the 
light of that sunny countenance. The only consolation was that they 
were two of them, and could only have a half-share of the smiles 
apiece. Hitherto, when he had called to inquire for Carron, he 
had always been asked to come in and hear the particulars of his 
progress, or oftenest of his waning poor fellow! and he had some’ 
times tried the famous sherry. Every time he came to London— 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


367 


and really business seemed to draw him to town very frequently — 
he called at the house in St. John’s Wood, and, if he could not see 
the engraver, he was sure to have some question concerning Linda 
Fraser lo ask on behalf of his friend Raby, that no one could answer 
so well as Flitters. Raby’s business seemed to occupy Esdaile a 
good deal, though he did not often write to George, however much 
his visits to London might be prolonged. 

“ I haven’t bothered you much with London news, have I, old 
fellow?” he would complacently say to Raby, who had been dying 
to hear something about Linda Fraser, either of good or bad, so 
that he might forgive her, or forget her. Esdaile heard enough 
about her from Flitters, who told him of the devoted love she l7ad 
inspired in Carron; and the engraver talked about her too. Indeed, 
on his second visit, when Esdaile was talking to Carron about Flit- 
ters’s charms, Carron thought he was speaking of Linda, and was 
half jealous, and he assented with such exaggeration that Esdaile 
was half jealous too. They righted this afterward, and parted on 
good terms. Flitters was obliged to ask him to sit down and taka 
a glass of wine. He had often given her to understand that he was 
a judge of wine. He is always afraid of sherry at other houses, but 
here he is safe. 

Little Flitters had some suspicion that Esdaile meant something 
more than mere admiration of her sherry, from the mixed bin (that 
rare and curious blend), by coming so frequently to inquire of her 
about Linda, or, in fact, about -anything. His looks caused her such 
a queer sensation, a mixture of sensations as curious as her sherry ; 
his words came out so much like an admirer’s. He seemed always 
on the point of saying more, and then thinking of an improved way 
of saying it. Could he mean anything? She thought on this all 
the while she w'as putting the expression into her music, and espe- 
cially during the linger practice, which was easier, being purely 
mechanical, and leaving room for mental effort of any kind. She 
puzzled over his meaning as much as over the meaning of her music. 
She liked him, and he might mean to make her an offer. But, if 
she accepted him, he would want to make acquaintance with he r 
family. No, she could not stand this man — who seemed so com- 
fortably off, who thought lightly of railway fares to and from 
Yorkshire; she could not stand his seeing the little house out Tol- 
lington Park way. Suppose he came upon them promiscuously, 
and it happened to be washing-day ! Her little pride could not 
endure the thought of his going to the front door (the only door) 
and striding over the neighbors’ chickens as they ran about tiirough 
the missing links of the garden railings. Scrutinizing her sisters 
too, if they should be at home, and wearing out their old clothes in 
holiday times. Oh, no; an improvised interview would be too 
dreadful. As she thought of these things in detail, the expression 
of the piece of music became less involved and more decided. 

Yet, when they met, they talked' sensibly and practically enough. 
He brought specimens of Yorkshire produce for her to try, and he 
asked her opinion of his butter (how was it the butter in his part of 
Yorkshire was always made in such large rolls?), and they com- 
pared notes as to prices. 

••He says I can get it for sixpence,” she would tell Carron, re- 


ADJilAK BIUGHT. 


3GS 

latiug afterward some circumstances of their conference; ‘^but 
then a big man like that must have such a very queer notion o/ six- 
pence. It maybe a florin, or more; while sixpence out of my fifteen 
shillings only leaves fourteen and six.” 

But to-day, with Herr Grolleuicht and Mr. Fairfax in the room, 
what could he find to talk about? The conversation must be gen- 
eral, and, if general, uninteresting. How very rude it was for a 
first visitor to try to outstay a later arrival. Trying over passages 
of music together, too. “ I know nothing .so detestable as music,” 
groaned he in spirit. He meant male professors of music. It was 
clearly women’s work. 

‘‘ Yez, zat is goot; a disgort resolved into a goncort imbroves the 
liarmony, as your great Bagon says,” muttered the professor, con- 
cerning a musical phrase. 

How was Esdaile to know that all their talk was about Hermi- 
one, and her songs here present; and her projected cantata, to 
which Flitters had impelled her. But, if he hated the professor, 
the feeling was mild compared with what he felt for Fairfax. He 
recognized a rival here; he had only uncomfortable doubts about 
the other man. “ How^ charming is divine philosophy!” he re- 
membered to have heard said in the days of his youth, a stupid say- 
ing, quoted by Baby, or some other greenhorn. Excepting male 
musicians, there is nothing more abominable. And here was his 
most abhorred philosopher of any school, sipping sherry in his 
friend’s house — no, lodgings — and patronizingly discoursing with 
himself about Yorkshire, as if he were quite at home. No, noth- 
ing should make him be the first to go. He w’ould not quietly throw 
up the game while any hope was left. Meanwhile, the cruel fair 
one left them to rend each other, while she talked of Hermione’s 
songs, and of how she had the gift of expression, which she herself 
could only acquire by long and laborous hammering. Merely to 
see Hermione at the piano was to feel music. 

Herr Grollenicht at length rose to button up his coat and depart. 

“ Then you wdll dezidedly not gome with me to Gannes? I 
should vinish you there so beautivully. Sink of the blue zea, de 
dranien groves, de zmells of blooms, de German band ubon de bier. 
Sink of all dis, and sink of me, and gome.” 

The other two men awaited her sentence in desperation. The 
heartless little woman refused to sink of all these siren sings; re- 
fused with smiles, and dismissed him without a tear. 

The ponderous German broke out in one big sigh, shot a wither- 
ing glance at the two remainders, and departed. 

“ He’ll commit suicide, if you go on so,” said Tom Esdaile, who 
had a fellow-feeling for a big man in distress. 

“ It’s entirely a matter of personal choice,” said Flitters, coolly. 

The philosopher agreed with her that it was entirely so; but then, 
]>hilosopiiers are proverbially hard-hearted brutes. Tom Esdaile 
was not, though he had been styled Ursa Major. “ She will say the 
same of me, when I am gone,” he reflected, bitterly; and he 
turned to go, and leave the philosopher to his triumph and his long- 
winded talk of how that, nowadays, there are so many hands to roll 
the ball— world, sphere of science— that it moves swifter than be- 
fore; all life whirls faster than it used to do. “ Only music he 


» 


ADKIAX BllIGHT. 369 

smiled as he made this flattering concession to the merits of her art, 

only music seems like the voice of the Past.” 

“ Fancy, in a moment like this, to be able to chatter nonsense like 
that ! ” thought Tom Esdaile. 

When Ursa Major’s heart was burning with a question of life and 
death, that is of joy or disappointment, this man could calmly 
take up his parable and philosophize. He longed to take him by 
the “scruff of the neck ” and hurl him anywhere about his business, 
if he had any, that he might let the work of the world go on — the 
marrying and giving in marriage. lie w(»uld like to roll him out 
swiftly like a ball of science, or a ball of cotton, or a football. 
What a pity he was an old man, and not a few sizes bigger; or Tom 
Esdaile would have done it. 

Then Flitters spoke again in words of dismissal to both. She had 
other fish to fry. They must get out of her frying-pan, whatever 
might happen next. She put this neatly into words, and they had 
to go. Pliilosophy must always give place to business, and Flitters 
w’as a woman of" business. She packed off the philosopher, and 
then— just poured out the half-glass iu the fag end of the decanter 
for Tom Esdaile to finish up. “Good health and happiness be 
yours,” he muttered, and let himself be turned out too. He was so 
big, that he almost smothered the little woman; but she w^as the 
stronger of the two, and she dismissed him with his errand unde- 
livered. Poor Tom Esdaile! 


CHAPTER XLIX. 

*• We watched him breathing through the night, . 

His breathing soft and low, 

As in his breast the wave of life 
Kept heaving to and fro. 

“ Our very hopes belied our fears, : 

Our fears our hopes belied — 

We thought him dying when he slept. 

And sleeping when he died.”— Hood. 

“And now where is Prothero-VV'. ? This concerns him most. 
AVdiy should they show all the despairing lovers up to me ! I am 
sick of lovers — other people’s lovers.” 

Thus said Little Flitters as she came down from Mr. Carron’s 
room, where she had been again gently nursing him all night. She 
was carrying about “a sea-sick caudle,” as siie styled hers, gutter- 
ing at an angle, for the gas was out, and the whole household had 
not long gone to rest, after a painfully exciting night, when i^oor 
Walter Carron was expected at any moment to breathe his last, and 
the ph 3 ^sician had sat long at his bedside anxiously watching the 
case, and artists and great people had been throughout the day call- 
ing to make inquiries for his state. Thanks to the doctor’s skill 
and Flitters’s tender care he still lived, and was fully, though pain- 
fully, conscious. 

It was now seven o'clock, on a foggy winter’s morning, and 
George Raby, w ho had come from Yorkshire by the night-train, 
stood at the door of the house wdiere Linda Fraser lived, and sent in 
his card claiming an interview. The sleepy ho\ise-boy, who had 
been running messages often during the night, crawled up to tell 
her “ another gentleman from Yorkshire was Nvaiting.” Seeing his 


370 


ADllIAH BRIGHT. 


size, the boy had asked if he was from Yorkshire. The hu,Q:e dog 
“Grouse” dashed wildly up-stairs after the boy. Little Ptitters 
was furious at the noise and bustle, as well as at the draught from 
the open front-door. She was not inclined to be eas}'’ with lovers. 

Linda was, of course, not up. Not that she had been disturbed 
during the night; no one would have dared to awaken her, and no 
one dared to show the visitor into her room to wait. 

“ Here is everything about as uncomfortable as — a drop of treacle 
gone up one’s sleeve,” continued f litters, in soliloquy; “and yet 
lovers must needs come a-bothering — and their dogs, too. How is 
it that everything belonging to Yorkshire is a size too big? gloves 
twelves, dogs elephants, and great-coats a mistit for Goliath, a size 
too large for him. What an overgrown county. So much the 
worse for Prothero-W.” 

Little Flitters was not sure that Mr. Prothero- Wilson had already 
proposed to Linda, but she was quite certain he meant to do so, as 
certain as that the moth that wooes the candle will be smitten by it; 
and she was convinced in her own mind that Linda would accept 
him, vice Lord Palairet and other people resigned. 

She went to Linda’s room and “routed her up at once,” for she 
could not leave Carron alone, and she had nowhere to let the 
man from Yorkshire wait. She would not turn him out, as she 
knew him by name and description to be Mr. Esdaile’s friend Raby, 
and she had a sneaking sympathy for him for Mr. Esdaile’s sake; 
therefore she went in, as she said, and hauled Linda out of bed. 

She was the only person in the house not afraid of Linda, and she 
liad no heart to pity her for being in a hornet’s nest of lovers ; for 
was not the poor fellow up-stairs dying for love of her, and also of 
disease of other organs besides his heart; but the disease was in 
all ways aggravated as much by Linda’s coldness as by the severity 
of a Loudon winter; at least, this was Flitters’s view of the case. 
She pushed Raby into Linda’s sitting-room, and left him there to 
shiver in the daybreak, -while his dog waited on the door-mat. 

“ Linda Fraser won’t treat him any the better, poor fellow, for 
his calling at inconvenient hours like this, Avhich may be the York- 
shire custom, for aught I know. If she should want to be hospita- 
ble, goodness knows when she will get her coffee, for Mrs. Jonas 
won’t have the kitchen fire alight for hours yet. However, that is 
their affair — and Proihero-W.’s.” 

Flitters went up stairs again with her candle. The poor little 
woman looked worn and very weary. “ I look as if my eyebrows 
had got upside down under my eyes,” she said, as she viewed her- 
self by her candle-light in Carron’s drawing-mirror. She entered 
his room silently. He still slept. “ He still lives ” -was her feeling. 
There was nothing more to be done but wait and watch and read 
the prayers for him who had no longer strength to pray. 

Hermione and Saffo came early to relieve Flitters in her nursing. 
The poor young cripple’s good and lovely life had earned him these 
noble volunteers to serve him in his hour of need and suffering. 
There were none of them but had in their time been helped or 
strengthened by his word or by his example; and of the large outer 
world, many had been by his kindness brought back to be content 
with life, or encouraged to go through a gloomy day. 


ADRIAIh' bright. 


371 

“ Dear fellow, he is so sweet, so patient,” said Flitters. “ This 
night has been a beautiful lesson to me.” They entered the hushed 
room. 

“ Does Linda know,” whispered Saffo, awed at the tomb-like ap- 
pearance of the silent figure, and the little gold plate out of the 
ivory box held in the hands of death. 

“ Mr. Raby is down-stairs even now, talking to her.” 

Saffo was indignant. That any one, that she, of all others, should 
dare to receive lovers in this house at such a moment! 

“ I will go down and tell her my mind.” 

After long waiting in the darkened room, whose blinds were not 
yet raised, Raby beheld Linda, who entered in a statel}’ manner, 
carrying her lamp. She was like a majestic apparition to Raby’s 
dazzled eyes. 

He had come intending to be reproachful, firm, and to know if it 
were true that she had entangled herself in other engagements, 
while as yet hers to him w’as not formally broken off. 

Pie would have canceled it in those bygone days, when it seemed 
she had rather kill herself than marry him. It w'as herself w’ho, 
from fear of her aunt, Mrs. Nugent, and the rest of the scoffing 
w’orld, would not allow it to be supposed that she had been cast off re- 
jected, by the country clowm whom she had once consented to many. 

At her appearance he was cowed, and began by stammering an 
apology, wdiicli she received in dignified silence. *He had called at 
the hotel of his friend Estfaile first, for the direction to Miss Fraser’s 
liouse, and he was going back that very morning with Esdaile to 
Yorksliire. 

His object was to know distinctly, and finally, his position with 
regard to Linda. lie had tried himself, tutored himself, in vain ; 
he could not give her up, at least, not of his own free will. He left 
the decision in her hands; despising himself for his weakness all the 
wdiile. This was what Linda w'anted, too, though sue was not will- 
ing to bear any reproaches from her quondam suitor, while she felt 
she had been to blame for more reasons than he knew. 

Their conference was at its least satisfactory stage, when Saffo 
burst into the room, darting invective and reproaches all around 
her, dealing out plain truths with vigorous tongue. She blamed 
Linda, before Raby, for not having married the poor dying youth 
)ip stairs, and saved his life for the nation and for art’s sake; a way 
of devoting her life to art far more profitable, she scathingly re- 
marked, than painting third-rate compositions of her own. 

Raby defended Linda. It was unreasonable, he said, that a 
woman should be expected to feel this course a duty; to have it 
thought obligatory that she should many from patriotic motives. 

Bui when Saffo described poor Walter’s dying gaze fixed on her 
portrait, in passionate acermts and with tearful pathos, Raby was 
touched, and wished that Linda had the heart of this young w'oman, 
who W’as so veiy like her in feature; but Saffo trembled with pas- 
sion all over, while Linda was a stone, a very stone. Would she 
not come up and see him, just for kindness’ sake? and even Raby 
urged her to go. No, he was a stranger to her, he was surrounded 
by kind nurses, she could not harrow up her feelings; and Saffo 
was very romantic, wildly fanciful. 


ADKIAK BRIGHT. 


372 

“ I give you up, Linda,” said Saffo, desperately. “ I see I must 
go back to Paris. I am not yet strong enough to contend against 
the moral evil of even my own small circle. There is no hope for 
the world but in a vast and complete regeneration of human 
nature.” 

Linda shrugged her shoulders; Raby wondered what young mad- 
woman this was, who was at times so interesting and so pathetic. 
Saffo turned upon her cousin: 

“ Oh go up to him, Linda. Even now it is not too late to give 
a breath of joy to a dying man, who has been starved for want of it. 
Spare for him out of your abundance, I implore you, one breath of 
joy to waft him into eternity.” 

While Saffo was down-stairs. Flitters was called away. Mr. Es- 
dailo was there and must see her. 

Now, really, this is horrible!” 

The exaspeiated Flitters had lost all patience. Woe to Esdaile 
now. 

He was going back to Yorkshire with Raby this very day, and 
must see Flitters first. Would she, oh! -would she — the big man 
actually trembled before the angry little woman whos(} sparkling- 
eyes said, “ no ” before he spoke. Would she be his wife? Would 
she come with him and brighten up his Yorkshire home? Come to 
Yorkshire, and be a queen, where her slightest will should be law 
through half the West Riding? 

Flitters, was softened by the evident truth, the devotion of the 
man, this great, big Blunderbore of a Avooer. Her eyes lost their 
flash and shed a milder light. They were standing in the passage; 
all this time, wdlh the great \logmarching up and down, as a lion does 
in its cage at the Zoological Gardens. Then Saffo darted out, and 
flew up-stairs with her handkerchief at her eyes. This recalled 
Flitters to herself and to a sense of the sad and melancholy present. 
She will not marry Esdaile; she is poor, and too proud to be a clog 
on any man. 

“ I love you all the better for being poor. If you had been rich I 
should never have known how good you are;” faltered out the big 
man, anxiously. “ I should never have been able to ask a wmmaii 
for herself and her money too; I want to give her mine. Oh, do 
come with me to Yorkshire and share mine.” 

Flitters softened more and more at every instant, and could only 
carry out her resolution of refusal by a determined burst and a rush 
away. 

“ No, you are too* 'rich and great and big for me. I cannot 
marry you. I really can’t. I haven’t got the time to spare for 
amusements. Here’s Herr Grollenicht, most unjustifiably going to 
Cannes, making me cram my finishing into a few weeks. "l might 
bring an action against him for making me transgress the Factory 
Act. And liere’s poor Carron, too, I have to think of liim, poor 
felloAV, until — until he’s dead.” 

She burst into tears, and ran up, right up to her own little room, 
leaving her crestfallen suitor to let himself out of the house as best 
he could. 

He would like to strangle Herr Grollenicht. Yes, strangle him, 
or pound him to a jelly. He could without self-reproach of 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


powarclice pound him, for lie was almost as big ns the Yorkshire 
man, and Esdaile could hit one of his own size — willingly. Flit- 
ters, between them, was as Minerva’s dove between the huge rocks 
of Symolegades. But the knowing little dove can take care of her- 
self, I think. 

During these exciting interviews Hermione was alone with Car- 
rou. He woke and knew her. He was fully conscious, for he 
clasped the cherished gold plate tight. Hermione gave him a 
stimulant and he spoke faintly. He talked of Dais}-^ Flitters and 
herself, of how the}^ had been like angels tending him. 

“ I have no near kindred,” he told Hermione. “ My will is made 
and in that box. To you, dear one, I give my dying blessing; 
nothing else is precious enough for you, and your husband must 
take what he'likes best as a memorial of me. All my money and 
effects I have left to Daisy Flitters; she can live hereon what I 
leave her. All is hers but this, wdiich give when I am gone, to your 
cousin, to Miss Fraser, to Linda.” It was the little ivory box hold- 
ing the engraved portrait on the gold plate. “ Give it to her, with 
your own sweet w'ords, from me. I will hold it to the last.” 

The painful speaking was over. The room was intensely silent. 
Oh, would not Linda come up and shed one last gleam of joy here! 
Hermione ran down to try to bring her. She met Saffo, who told 
lier she was a stone, a very flint. They went back without her, not 
heeding the two who were talking in the hall. Hermione entered 
the room of death with Saffo. The dying man looked up, took her 
for Linda, and blessed her. The two women sank on their knees. 
He died happy; they had not the heart to undeceive him. 

Flitters came back and wept violently. 

“ And they took me away from him at the last,” she said, in 
broken tones, as she sank weeping into Hermione’s arms. 

Hermione comforted her, and told her of Carrou’s kind message 
to her, and of his will. 

“ Dear saint,” said Flitters, after a long pause, full of grief and 
affection. " I will come down and live in his rooms. 1 shall never 
imbibe his genius, but I might be inspired with his loving tender- 
ness and his industry, which he persevered in through so much pain.” 

They removed the small gold plate from its clasping hand, put it 
in the ivory box, and directed it to Linda from VV’alter Carron. 
Hermione, after a battle with herself, carried it down with sweet 
words of love and forgiveness. Linda was alone; she said little, 
and only coldly answered her cousin’s kiss. She said she was sorry 
to hear of the poor young man’s death, but Saffo had been very 
unreasonable in attributing any share in his illness to her. Her- 
mione sighed, and went up- stairs to the real mourners. 

They were all veiy sad, and Flitters saw the last offices performed 
for the dead. They placed a white flower in the hand that had held 
the image of the ideal he had loved. The placid face spoke of how 
the bruised spirit was at rest, the fervid soul in peace. Saffo said, 

“ Let papa help you to arrange the funeral and manage everything 
for you, and come to Welbeck Street until all is over.” 

“No, come to me, Daisy dear,” said Hermione, “it wdll do us 
both good.” 

Mr. Bright soon came to Adrian’s house in Maida Vale, bringing, 


ADKTAX BRIGHT. 


374 - 

as usual, Augusta, Bambino, and the Cob list with him, that he 
might take Fiitters’s instructions as to her wishes about her deceased 
friend’s funeral. It was so strange to Flitters to have her wishes 
consulted; for her opinion to be given the first place; she, wlio had 
hitherto only had the position which she took, and kept by the 
force of her sharp little tongue. Now she was recognized by every 
one PS chief mourner and residuary legatee. 

“Here it is, papa. Page 954 of the Cob list. Genteel funerals 
furnished,” said the horrid little Augusta. 

“ Where is Mr. Carron?” asked Bambino, in an awed whisper. 

“ Why, Saffo told you he is gone to heaven,” replied Augusta. 

“ His body isn’t in heaven,” returned the child. “ His Uiinks is 
there. — Are you mildewed?” (subdued he was supposed to mean) 
said Bambino, soothingly, to Flitters. “We are all very mildewed 
at home. ’Bella’s mildewed.” 

“ Is she?” 

“ Yes, she really is,” Augusta answered for him. “ She has lost 
her tragedy in the post, anci it was so beautifully written too!” 

“Are you setting up for a critic also?” asked her father. 

“ Well, papa, even SafTo said it was beautifully copied out.” 

“ But we’re all most mildewed because — because Safifo is going 
away. Boo-boo.” Bimbo burst out in an unsubdued howling. 

“ Is she really going?” asked Hermione and Flitters together. 

“ Yes,” said Gussie. “ She says she can’t bear life here, it has 
been such a cruel disappointment to her — and I’m sure she’s had 
parties enough, and she can have just what puddings she likes. It 
is being quite discontented, we all think; when everything is so 
nice about the house, and Friol lets her use the kitchen fire and all.” 

Yes, Saffo was really going — going away in order to gather more 
power, as she said, and to collect more light to radiate. She had 
failed, she thought, in inculcating obedience to the natural law, to 
the great original law, because she had not herself studied it with 
full practical intention, so as to be able to define it, and lay down 
the exact bearings of its collateral or by-laws. She was a student 
trying to be a teacher; thinking, according to her theory of primary 
movement, that she could have gone on perfecting herself in the 
study of “ droit,” the gre;U primeval law, the center of all anthro- 
pological science, while preaching to others its first principles, that 
she and her followers might move onward together, as the horse and 
chariot. For some reason she had failed in her aims; she was 
humbler now than at the outset of her anthropological career. She 
would not lower her views, that were base; but she would learn 
liumility. She would take example from Little Flitters, who, feel- 
ing herself imperfect in her branch of the one great universal art, 
once fled to Germany (with only twenty pounds, and that her all, in 
her pocket) to work out its perfection in herself; and she still strug- 
gled on in that pursuit in face of poverty and many duties which 
came upon her, or which she took to herself as obligations. 

Yes, she, Saffo, would go and affiliate herself to those magnetic 
lights, until she herself grew luminous; and the world couid not 
choose but be convinced. 

Thus Saffo talked and argued in her family, believing in herself, 
and believed in by Cinderella, who looked up to her as a being of 


ADRIAN BUIGRT. 


375 

a higher order than herself. Even May (of the High School) thought 
there was logically something in what Saffo said, and she would not 
have objected to a trip to Paris on the same grounds. And Mrs. 
Bright was well contented that Saffo should wish to continue her 
course of education, so long as this in any way opened up fount- 
ains of thought, or made outlets for activity. Mr. Bright discovered 
in Saffo a rheumatic and febrile tendency which he tiiought best 
counteracted by the leguminous French dietary, and the forms of 
potassium in the brassicacia? and salads in such abundant, daily use 
in France. He thought another year in France would strengthen 
her constitution, and give her stamina equal to her good will. I’he 
rest of the world thought the Brights would like to have their house 
quiet again after the upsetting Saffo had given to it. 

And so Saffo left home, after rushing like a meteor, or a meta- 
phor, as an old lady at Saffo’s party said, across the lives of the act- 
ors of our story ; followed by regrets from all, or nearly all, her 
kindred, who had been kept by her in a chronic state of pleasurable 
excitement. 

Bobby, in particular, wept at her departure ; and wiped his tears 
with such a ragged handkerchief, a relic, a tattered banner of his 
innumerable wars with society and circumstances, that the sight of 
Bobby’s lachrymatory seemed to cheer them all, and raise all their 
spirits, for they smiled their adieux, and IVEr, Bright turned at once 
from the Victoria station into the A. and N. Co-operative stores. 

“ Victoria is a nice little station, I consider,” said May, as she sat 
pensive, while Bobby was writing his order for pocket-handker- 
chiefs, a miserably difficult word to spell, from the Cob list. 

“ Little station, indeed!” quoth Bobby. “ What sort of stations 
have you been accustomed to, 1 wonder?” 

“ Attend to your business, Bobby. I wouldn’t trust a boy of 
mine to make a Cob list,” said May, who was second-eldest sister 
now Saffo was gone. 

Things of like nature always run in pairs. Mr. Fairfax heard the 
particulars of Walter Carron’s will, which put him in mind to 
remodel his own. He, too, left everything, projects and all, with 
directions for carrying them out, to Flitters, that business-like little 
woman whose views so delightfully supplemented his own and ren- 
dered them more practical. He left his nephew, George Baby, co- 
executor with Flitters to his will; and to him was left the reversion 
of all the Turner paintings, unless (and this, like many other 
clauses of his will, promised a line crop of cases for the lawyers) 
Flitters should have provided a public exhibition-room for them, or 
otherwise have disposed of them, according to the best of her judg- 
ment, for the public good; when the pictures were, at Flitters’s 
death, or determination to part with them, conclusively to belong to 
the town where she should have localized them. Pie longed to 
decentralize, to spread throughout the country the wealth, poverty, 
and population that London gathers in its mighty maw. The 
wealth would be more useful, the poverty less harmful, spread 
abroad and ventilated by the country air, and the population might 
use their hands to dig, instead of holding them out to beg. Where- 
fore he would prefer to endow some small town with his Turner 
jewels, making of that small town a shrine, a pilgrimage of grace. 


376 


ADIUAN BRIGHT. 


Of course, the provisions of this will necessitated his often seeing 
Flitters, who thought the famous Turners would he as safe, and 
just as much a pilgrimage of grace, iu George Rahy’s keepin;^, as 
under the care of a curator in some small museum. Most things, 
she understood, were well kept and safely lodged in Raby Hall; 
and provision for door-mats and scrapers for the pilgrims of grace 
would come cheaper than the keep of a curator and his family, and 
the man who would have to look after the umbrellas of the pilgrims. 

The philosopher was more than ever charmed with Flitters, with 
her practical good-sense, her breadth of views, her disinterestedness, 
and her care for posterity. Oh, would she but take charge of the 
famous Turners now, at once, and — take him with them! Oh! 
what great works might not they two do together — he to invent, she 
to adapt. In fine — for really the flow of w^ords, and views, and 
arguments was too copious to write— would Flitters marry him, be 
Daisy Fairfax, his Daisy, his own bright Day? 

“What a fool I was," tliought fiaisy, our Day Flitters, “ for 
neglecting my studies when I was at school, and might have learned 
the polite and proper way of ‘ refusing a proposal of Marriage.’ ’’ 
These forms should always be provided in every Young Lad3''’s 
Manual, or Complete Educator. They should be; and the practical 
Flitters naturally thought they were. Not being provided with a 
form. Little Flitters had to refuse her second offer of marriage from 
an eligible gentleman of means and landed estate, in her own way; 
and, as she never mentioned the way she did it, why, she was either 
ashamed of it, and did not wish it to be known — perhaps until she 
had patented it; or she had other reasons, which, we may take it 
for granted, were good. 

No sooner was Mr. Fairfax gone away, w’ith his refusal, his philos- 
ophy, and his draft-will, than Flitters flew to Hermione, and con- 
fided to her a few leading facts of the case. 

“But, Daisy, do you mean to be hard-hearted to everybody? 
Are we never to attend your wedding, or are you waiting for Bam- 
bino?" 

Hermoine had some unmentioned suspicions of her own about 
the big Yorkshireman. 

Flitters^burst out: 

“ I can’t be married. I haven’t time to be married. I should 
have to work six weeks at making clothes, and then have to go for 
a honeymoon with some indifferent person." 

Hermione laughed. 

“But he would not be an indifferent person by the time the six 
weeks were over, I suppose?" 

“ Unless I had grown indifferent to him, meanwhile," Flitters re- 
joined. “ It would be like living on shifting sand to marry that 
philosopher. Yet when he talks, he is all too tempting. We quar- 
rel so comfortably. It io so nice and exciting to be^'like cat and 
dog with a mere admirer. But to live upon lovers’ quarrels — as a 

g Tactical woman, Ninemine, would you recommend it for life? 

esides — I can’t, for decency’s sake, take him when I have not Ion"- 
refused another for no better reason. One can’t even do that at a 
ball. I suppose little ethics ought to have the same principle as 
big ethics. Saffo would say so. I’m sure." 


ADRTAK BRIGHT. 377 

Then it came out how Flitters had refused Mr. Esdaile — and how 
— she rather wislied slie had not! 

Yet the remembrance of many pleasant hours she had passed in 
the philosopher’s society at Welbeck Street — she playing, while he 
wrote — overcame her, as she reflected upon this love passage, and 
she felt that here, too, was a loss. She had given up sometliing of 
value, a preference share in another’s life. How he loved to write 
to tlie sound of her music! It inspired him, threw ideas in his way, 
rather; and his talk had educated her, enlarged her views. She had, 
indeed, very nearly accepted him, and, distrusting herself, had said: 

“ 1 must get out of the way of his tempting tongue. What a pity 
it is,” she thought, “ that a woman’s rejected lover can never remain 
her friend. No, Ninemine,” she said, after a long pause of reflec- 
tion, “what Saffo used to tell us is only too true. You can be 
married once, and, in choosing your spouse (where you have several 
to choose from), you should think wliether you will like to look at 
that object always, and put up with his ways. You can’t get rid of 
him, when once you’ve got him, at least, not without giving rise to 
more talk than is creditable. He is not like a china ornament that 
you can smash.” 

Adrian missed the philosopher, and wondered if he had gone back 
to Yorkshire. 

“ lyir. Fairfax never comes here now?” he asked of Friol. 

“ No, sare. He have got de sack,” said Friol, knowingly^ 

“What has he got?” asked Adrian, thinking it might be the 
measles. 

“ He have de sack. Somebody not want to keep him.” 

Friol has his “idas ” about all this. Tom Esdaile tipped him so 
largely when he called to speak to Miss Flitters there, that lie 
thinks there must be something in the wind that blows him a 
sovereign quite accidentally. When Mr. Fairfax did eventually 
call again in Welbeck Street, the ladies were not at home. He in- 
quired for Miss Flitters. 

“Miss Flits have put roast mutton on his nose for her rhume,” 
said Friol. 

“ Dear me, what a singularly clever invention,” thought the 
philosopher, wdio sighed each time he tried the application on his 
own account. 

Friol heard voices in the distance— his interests were in jeopardy. 

“Hang tuch. Mottled, a hang tuch — wipe hands,” Mr. Briglit 
was calling out; “ and teller. Mottled, teller, teller.” 

“Tell her what, papa?” asked May, who saw he had plenty of 
plates all about. 

“ I want a spoon.” 

“Oh, papa, you asked for plates!” 

“ Ah, my dear, my German fails me sometimes.” (A mild way of 
putting it.) “ When I want plates, how must I say it?” Mr. Bright 
saw an oi)portimity for a useful lesson, 

“ Noch ein teller.” 

“ Knock and tell her. Dear me, how singularly like English 
German is.” 

“ Fi-dc^^di-dee!” cried Friol, as soon as he could escape from Mr, 
Fairfax. “ He not want more plates — he shall not have some!” 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 



CHAPTER L. 

“ Yet beautiful and bright he stood, 

As born to rule the storm ; 

A creature of heroic blood, 

A proud though child like form. 

“ Upon his brow he felt their breath, 

And in his waving hair; 

And look’d from that lone post of death. 

In still, 5’et brave despair,” —Felicia Hemans. 

The house at Welbeck Street was dull and quiet now that Saffo 
was gone. Saffo, who never left them an instant of pure idleness, 
but insisted upon their employing every moment in some branch of 
their perfecting, — according to her lights, of course. The undaunted 
’Rella had begun anew tragedy, and was scouring the plain, and all 
creation, for a plot and a sensation. They never had sensations 
there, at any rate, now Saffo was gone, nor any incident useful to 
study tragic motives from. 

Bobby seemed to consider it dull too, unpardonably dull for 
Christmas holiday time (the vacation had already begun) ; and this day 
was dull in particular, for the others were gone all footballing, and 
he was kept at home with a cold, and only Bambino for his satellite. 
They strayed into the kitchen, seeking some amusement or some- 
thing to devour. Bobby sometimes read the newspaper to Friol, and, 
what with his mistakes and Friol’s misapprehensions, the resultant 
news was startling, and well adapted for tlie large-letter paragraphs 
on the placards of the evening papers. It was quite “fourth and 
special edition” news. But mostly Bobby’s readings were soothing 
rather than sensational, as when he read Miss Braddon’s “ Lady’s 
Mile,” that Friol thought was interesting quand meme, though 
Bobby left out all the long words, and those which he feared Friol 
might want him to translate into the Romance or purer Latin 
tongue. To day, when Bobby entered the kitchen in quest of a pur- 
pose, Friol impressed him, saying, “ Venez lire.” 

“ Venny lire,” grumbled Bobby; “ I’m always leering. I want 
to do something useful. Books are a bore; un grand bodaire, you 
know. We did all very well without books in the olden time, be- 
fore mein Vater ist in der Welt gekommen, and at the battle of 
Hastings, you know, when people didn’t think so blessed much of 
reading; and I doubt if it is good for much,” 

“The Herr Doktor makeup loose time afterward,” said Friol, 
who had not understood the whole of Bobby’s harangue. Yet this 
was sometimes the drift of Friol’s own argument, when the other 
servants wanted to attend to their mental culture, and read the 
murders — ’orrible murters. Backed by some of Mr. Fairfax’s 
opinions, which condemned general reading, that is, the reading 
which other people generally feel inclined to, as waste of time, 
Friol said that readers were apt to read all the bad books and take 
none of the goods. That was his “ ida.” Friol did relish his news- 
paper, however, 

“ I’ve an idea too,” said Bobby to his small brother. “ I vote we 
become great sculptors, and get all the old dolls and make statues 
of them.” 


ADRIAN BRIGHfl'. 


379 


Oh, wouldn’t it be dolly?” cried Bimbo, enthusiasticall3^ 

“ Awfully jolly,” said Bobby. 

“ Ev’iybody will sink we are so nice— and bi.c:,” said Bambino. 
The newspaper -reading was a lost case to-day. Friol’s temper was 
not sweetened thereby. 

Away the boys scampered to seek the family dolls, and they 
dressed some of them in the “historical ” clothes from the “chest 
of trousers,” others in classical suits of towels tastefully draped. 
They brought these works of art into the kitchen to pla}^ with. 
Friol routed them. 

“ I would fly with winks to serve Mees Saffo,” he explained to 
Lizabutf, who now, as nurse, haunted the scenes of her former pro- 
fession, revisiting the pale glimpses of the area windows; “ but I will 
not have ever de smalls en de kishen.” Here he drove out Bobby 
and Bambino, and laid hands on the biggest dolls, many of which 
were oozing sawdust out of the ends of their amputated limbs. 
“ And dese dawlls dey’re awful.” He pronounced it olfal. 

“ Offal, are they,” said Bobby, mocking in retreat, “ then bring 
them to me to burn for phosphates.” 

Friol looked as if he would seize all the dolls. Otf flew Bobby 
and Bambino with their works of art. 

They fled into Adrian’s studio-^forbidden ground, without a 
special invitation. At first their trespass w’as unnoticed, the sculptor 
being among his men; but presently Puck becoming an imp in real 
earnest — Bobby proving his nght to his title of Robert le Diable by 
doing an immense deal of mischief, such as removing some carefully- 
laid drapery, and clothing an idol with it — Adrian seized him and 
his armful of dolls, and sent him up into the loft, and then returned 
to his model. Bimbo, from a concealed nook, watched him en- 
grossed in his work, and then he silently made for the stairs, and 
ran up and rejoined the lesser artist, Bobb3^ Adrian, hearing a noise, 
thought it was Bobby trying to escape, so he turned the key of the 
staircase upon both the intruders, and absorbed himself in his work 
again. The model and the studio-attendants presently departing, 
Adrian likewise went off to the British IVluseum. He did not want 
to go there, but Linda, who purposely made much of her difiiculties 
with her studies from the antique, selecting, perhaps purposely also, 
subjects beyond her capacity, made such a point of his assistance, 
that he could do no other than “ oblige a lady.” Besides, bethought 
every student loved art as disinterestedly and devotedly as he himself 
did. 

By and by Hermoine came to Welbeck Street, and hearing Adrian 
was gone to the museum, where she felt painfully sure that Linda 
was also working, she sat down by Tante, who was painting in her 
usual place near the front window. Hermione w^as restless and un- 
happy. She could resolve on nothing, employ iierself on nothing. 
Pride forbade her going herself to the museum, pride, and a feeling 
of dread, to find her painful doubts changed to certainty. No, she 
Avouldwait and still tiaist, and, above all, as poor Walter Carron had 
told her in his beautiful, allegorical and prophetic w'ay, she would 
still love on, still earn her Adrian’s love, and conquer his admiration. 

She feared to disturb Mrs. Bright, so she changed her position to 
the back window and tried to read. She was like another and 


380 


ADJIIAX BRIGHT. 


more beautiful Melancholia than Albert Durer’s, this lovely, sad 
Hermioue, who sat, with the book upon her lap, looking out of the 
window at the studio below. She, too, missed Sailo, as she missed 
much else. How bright those days were when Sa£fo first came 
home; how gay the laughter, when she filled the house with life 
and with amusement, and lively thought; higher, wider, deeper 
than mere amusement; although her application of her fancies often 
made them laugh. Saffo, the "bright, impulsive one, of whose wild 
ways, now she was gone, only the rightnesses were perceived— tlie 
felicities only were remembered. So much w^as missing of the 
best part of life; yet so many things were the same, and it w^as so 
little w'hile ago. There was the poppy-head, the gracefully 
wrought finial, hoisted with such joyous ceremonial on that happy 
day when Adrian thus memorialized his first great commission, and 
they named their wedding-day. ^ Why had that happiness faded 
with tlie fading year, until now it seemed as if it could never blos- 
som more? It was quite dead — quite dead. Was the blight so 
truly in herself? She smiled sadly at the thought of the child Bam- 
bino hailing her as Mrs. Blight. 

“ Where is Bobby, I wmiider?” asked Tante,w’ho w'anted him as a 
model for the position of a child’s hand in her painting. “ Oh, I 
think he went down to Friol.” 

“lam going down, dear Xante,” said Hermione, “ I will tell him 
to come.” 

Friol, on being questioned, told Hermione that Bobby had “vum- 
maged ” all the costumes out of the “ chest of trousers,” and he had 
gone off to look for Mr. Adrian in the studio. He had not seen him 
since. Probably he w’as at the museum too. Hermione, standing 
in the yard facing the studio, thought she saw smoke issuing through 
the slightly open window. She opened the studio door, there was 
fire indeed. Some straw had just kindled in an uncovered packing- 
case. With the rush of air from the door the whole of the straw 
strewn about on the floor caught up in a blaze, and almost as soon 
sank and subsided, only leaving two lines ot flame running up the 
worked , linen curtains, Linda’s wedding-present to Adrian, with the 
emblems and figure of Phidias hewing the Theseus, embroidered in 
brown outline. There was no possibility of reaching the flame to 
extinguish it; Hermione sought the syringe — it was hidden. The 
fire flew up the curtains as high as the rafter of the roof in the few 
seconds that Hermione stood there thinking what else to do. 

Her remarkable presence of mind, her good genius, never deserted 
her. She caught up two rugs lying on the divan, and flung one into 
the tank which usually held the great masses of moist clay, that 
were only to-day roughed up in the colossal Milo that Adrian was 
now modeling. She at once passed swiftly to the house to give 
the alarm. She sent Lizabuff to find a policeman and to the fire- 
office, and penciled a line for a telegram to Adifan at the museum, 
and sent it off b}’’ Rosetta, and called Friol to help her at the burn- 
ing studio. She drew the wet rug from the tank for use as she 
might require, and wrapping the other round herself, went in and 
methodically took up each cast and statuette that Adrian most 
valued, as she came to them, and ran to place them in present safety in 
the yard, under the wail that connected the studios wdth the house. 


ADEIAJ^ BRIGHT. 


381 


^ She looked each time she passed at the lust fine statue, the Lore- 
ley, which she still indefinably felt to be her hated rival. Oh! how 
fine it was, as she f^lanced at it with its fiery background. How it 
seemed to stretch its arms out for succor! She conquered herself, 
her loathing, and tried to lift it; it was too heavy, she could only 
just move it, and it felt hot, with the blaze behind it. No use to 
w'aste time there, while she might yet save something more, till 
Friol came back, for he had just carried out a weiglity bas-relief in 
cla}*. She flung the wet rug over the fiendishly-beautiful, bewitch- 
ing statue, and then lifted more casts, and was just in time to save 
the i)recious portfolio; the fire had already caught it, but she put it 
out; and the dear clay models too, the Puck sketches, were safe. 
She drew damp cloths over all her rescued treasures. Oh, would 
help never come! It seemed so long to be alone with that awful 
tire. A sound of wheels, not loud enough for the engine, but wheels. 
It was Adrian, who drove furiously up in a hansom, and rushed to 
the studio. 

“ Here is the statue,” cried Hermione, showing the Loreley, “save 
it, Adrian.” 

“ I don’t care for that; if I could but save my Alceste, I should 
not so much mind the rest. I’ll have one try.” 

He went in to try, Hermione still standing by to help him, m all 
that frightful heat. 

“ I’ll see you save the statue and help you if I can.” 

A noise above and a cry ; a shout of terror. 

“ Hark, what is that?” cried she. 

“Oh, my God ! 1 know what it is. I locked the boy up there.” 

“ Bobby!” Hermione shrieked. 

He flew to the stairway, it was impossible to pass, it was all one 
blaze. Oh, to reach the locked door. 

The door was burst open now. Gallantly he rushed through — 
back again — baffled. That way was impossible. Yet there was the 
mischievous boy he locked up. He is horror-stricken at it now. 

“Oh, the boy, the boy. This way, this way!” cried the bravo 
woman, who had remembered a chance. Adrian followed her out- 
side. Tliere she was; she had already taken a long rope and was 
trying, by means of a forked pole, to throw it over the bronze 
popp.y-head of the gable. She failed twice, but the third time it caught. 

“ IVIy brave girl, my noble wife!” Adrian was already half way 
up the rope, climbing hand over hand on the double cord. Hold 
on. good finial. Friol had placed the ladder by the wall. There 
was Bobby at the window near the rope. 

Still no noise of rattling wheels, still no fire-engine. Why do 
they delay while the fire is raging? The boy sees Adrian; deliver- 
ance is near. Thank Heaven^ they will be safe. But no, he docs 
not come; the hero face of the noble child is lit up with more than 
earthly fire; he lifts up — Bambino— and flings him into Adiian’s 
outstretched arms. But oh! the bo3% the boy, the splendid boy, the 
young hero. Can this indeed be the mischievous brat he had locked 
up?— this gallant child, who saved his brother — though he died for it. 

Storming up come the engines, at last, at last; the missing turn- 
cock has been found, and water dashes upon the roof. Oh! agon- 
izing moment, are they in time, and can the rope still hold? Friol, 


382 


ADRIAN BRIGHT, 


on the ladder, has caught the child from Adrian, and Hermione has 
caught him from the man, but can the}^ save the boy? Adrian’s 
face is terrible as he knows he has been the death of that heroic 
child. The rope has partially slipped, or burned; only by a des- 
perate effort is Friol in time to pull and hold the loosened end while 
Adrian leaps on the window-sill and lifts Bobby down— drops him 
down to Friol, on the ladder. The mother is in the busy yard, and 
has both her boys in her arms. Thank Heaven’s mercy there! 
Streams of Avater are playing on the hissing slates, and at the win- 
dows. The engines are at play, the fire"^is slackening work, and 
help is coining from all quarters. 

Is Adrian safe? Ah, it is a fearful time for the wife. He stands 
on the window-ledge, has caught the tw’o encls of the shortened 
rope, and by the rope has swung himself upon the roof below the 
gable, and is safe at last. Oh, that dreadful moment — they, the 
women, looked up sick with white fear. Another hansom rushes 
up, here is Linda too. She comes in wildl.y. 

“All the mens and womens coming in,” cried the distracted Friol. 

“ Hermione, go in,” screams Linda, “you will only be in the way 
here.” 

Linda ran in among the heat and steam, but came back again 
immediately. Hermione has quietly pointed out to the firemen the 
Alceste statue. Was it possible yet to save it? The marble might 
split with the heat, especially if water be suddenly flung on it. The 
firemen view her calmness with admiration. It is easy to her now; 
she has seen her Adrian safe, and he has saved the children. Her 
work is to save his statute, if that may yet be. The firemen bear 
off the precious, ponderous Alceste, that was modeled from Her- 
mione. She lias entered the studio. One more effort, to save some 
one thing more for him who called her “ my brave girl, my noble 
wife.” She has lifted the heavy statue, the Loreley, still hidden in 
its wrapper, remoistened by the engine stream, and slie bears it out- 
side, and totters forward with it all hot, and through the scalding 
air in an agony of struggle; a fireman takes it from her; it is safe. 
She has sunk down beside the statue, held down by its weight upon 
her drapery, as the man placed it near her. Hermione can do no 
more, she can only see others work and finish the victory. She 
must lie passive now. 

Bambino is on the ground by her, creeping to her side. Bobby 
is weeping and suffering in his mother’s arms. He has been much 
scorched, and Mrs. Bright is shielding him in wrappings from the 
outer air, while she carries him in doors. Sounds of shattering are 
heard. Hermione looks up. Some small casts are being flung 
violently from a window. They are chiefly casts from the antique 
statues; the “Discobolus of Myron,” and others such, easy to be 
replaced. 

But here comes Adrian, searching everywhere for Hermione. 
Bambino drags him forward to where she lies, still held fast by the 
pedestal of the Loreley statue. Adrian raises her, kisses her in 
deepest thankfulness that she is uninjured. All is light lost, so that 
she be safe. Now they can look on together, while others do their 
duty. Another cast is being thrown out of the window. Who can 
be in there now? The absurdity of the act is lost in its danger. 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


383 


“ I know ; it. is Linda,” cries Bamkino. ** I saw her sleeve.” 

A fireman brings her out covered with wet blankets. 

She had tried to enter the smaller studio, thinking to save the 
Dido, which was, of course, impossible; the doorway would have 
been too narrow for it to pass in its present position. It must have 
been raised on end. When Linda entered this studio by the outer 
door, she saw this impossibility; so, with her usual lack of presence 
of mind on supreme occasions, she foolishly turned to the salvation 
of lesser objects, and flung some casts out of window to save them! 
Linda was safe, though carried, fainting, in doors, but the Dido Avas 
destroyed by fire. Its funeral pyre was sweetened by the sacrifice 
of forgiveness bestowed on Linda by the truly blessed Adrian and 
Hermione, as they stood, hand in hand, watching this last of the 
destruction. 

“ If I could but have saved a few of my own casts,” said Adrian, 
regretfull 3 % as the roof of the loft, above the first studio, at length 
fell in. “The things I most regret are my portfolio and my casts. 
Only that loss makes me have to begin the world again; and 1 feel 
it most for you, my darling.” 

Herrnione made him turn and see the precious things, and the 
portfolio, safe in their row under the wall, all covered by damp rugs, 
and, for the most part, uninjured. 

And now came the inquiry as to the origin of the fire, and Adrian 
went in among the charred and blackened ruins, with the men of 
the Salvage Corps. 

Mr. Bright hadcorae home by this time, and was in the yard, also 
investigating the amount of the damage. Linda came out with her 
uncle. She was loud in praise of the firemen who had rescued her. 

“ How well those firemen behave. Uncle, did you see those casts 
and sculptures ranged under the wall? Their loss would have been 
irreparable to Adrian,” A fireman pointed out that the young lady 
had saved them. 

Hermione never claimed distinction, especially she did not care 
for praise from Linda, who now' turned to pay her compliments to 
the chief man working with the Fire Brigade. But Captain Shaw 
himself was in the yard, and he spoke his admiration of what Her- 
mione had done with grave and manly earnestness. His men had 
told him all of w'hat had been done before they came, and they had 
seen her personal efforts. The children had been saved mainl}’- by 
her care and courage, and, as for the property, they said they had 
worked almost entirely under her direction. “ Seldom,” they said, 
“ are ladies so business-like. The Salvage Corps would be unneces- 
sary, w'ere many ladies like Mrs. Adrian Bright.” 

Bobby had already confessed the cause of the fire. He had taken 
the dolls up in the loft— the dolls which he called Adrian’s statues ; and 
the young iconoclast was making a hecatomb of the idols. He w'as 
burning them in the fireplace. But old rubbish, especially old dolls, 
gives more trouble in consuming than w'ould be generally supposed. 
When they did begin to burn, the blaze of the wax, and hair, and 
sawdust frightened the children too much for them to heap more 
dolls on the general sacrifice. But Bobby, answ'ering to his name 
of Robert le Diable, found a knot-hole in the floor, and then poured 
down some lighted .sawdust to the studio-floor beneath. 


adria:n" bright. 


384 

“ \V IS not, that a fnnny tickV” askorl Bambino, who admireil 
everyihing thal Ijobbj^ did. 

But now that every one seemed to think the deed horrible, and so 
much wonderful excitement had resulted from it, and Bobby’s legs 
were so sadly scorched, Bambino stood by his side, and resolutely 
defended him from all blame. Linda was loud in condemnation of 
his wickedness. 

“ Who did it?” asked Mr. Bright. 

“ Bobby did it,” said Linda, severely. 

“You didn’t saw,” cried the little defender of Bobby. 

“ Pie deserves a most severe punishment,” pursued Linda, who 
was always hard. 

“ He has had ’nuf punishment,” cried Bimbo. “ I punisheded him 
hard. I punisheded him drelful. Mamma and me did it quite *nuf. 
We looked away his new shoeses. It was frightufly hot up there 
when Bobby broughted me out and Adrian catcheded me.” 

“ That spoiled child,” said the displeased Linda, seeing Mr. Bright 
in a softened mood, and the mother indulging him, as Linda 
thought, with a weakness quite absurd. 

” My tears arc crying for Bobby,” said the interesting little 
pleader, clasping his father’s knees. ” Bobby wants to be loveded.” 
The father relents entirely when he hears from Hermione and others 
how the boy had saved his brother’s life, notwithstanding the risk 
and terror of the moment. Linda, to do her justice, had not heard 
of that before. The father melts toward the author of the danger 
to his Bambino, and his deliverer; and loves him as never yet a boy 
was loved. But it is only the mother who can, before all explana- 
tions, take the drowsy, half-impenitent, rough and “ naughty 
boy,” and soothe his evident pain, soothe him with “ sweetheart ” 
and “ darling” in softening influence and healing balm. 

Mr. Bright, never a Draco, was only loo lead}’^ to lay down the 
rod of judgment and become the healing physician. Bobby, with 
salve, and lint, and kindness, ^oon slept off Uie worst part of his 
punishment, and now Mr. Bright humorously caps the tale of IJnda’s 
iconoclastic energy in flinging out the casts, by the story of a fire in 
the countiy, where the housekeeper saved all the best china hy 
throwing it out of the window in like manner. 

“Linda and Bobby were both iconoclasts,” said Mrs. Bright; 

“ Linda smashed, Hermione saved.” 

The gable, with its finial, still stood. The children, on the out- 
break of the fire, had run into the loft over the second studio, of 
which the door was fortunately unlocked. Had it been fastened 
tliey must have perished, as the fire raged strongest in the first room; 
that loft was completely gutted, while the lower portion of the studio 
range was comparatively sound in its brick work and partitions. 

All was again safe and quiet, and Adrian and Hermione went to 
their own house together. It is not for us to draw aside the sacred, 
veils of the two homes; to enter those sanctuaries of love, forgive- 
ness, thankfulness, and worship. We must leave Adrian and his 
wife alone with their happiness. They could not speak for joy. The 
emotions of the day had been too many and heart-tilling, and w'hcn 
the heart is too full, the mouth cannot speak at all. Silence and 
Agamemnon’s veil must ever cover our most sacred feelings. A 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


385 

false accusation is one of the discords of life ; a harsh word is an- 
other, that forgiveness alone resolves, A resolved discord is often 
most full of music, of harmonious feeling. A forgiven sin causes 
a glow of rejoicing even in the angelic choirs. 


CHAPTER LI. 

“ Sport, that wrinkled Care derides, 

And Laughter holding both his sides, f 

Come, and trip it as you go, 

On the light fantastic toe. '"'—U Allegro. 

Little Flitters would not follow Herr Grollenicht to Cannes. 

“ No, as my coachman has given me warning, I will lay down 
my carriage, and take a tricycle, and pump my progress onward by 
myself ; I will work it out, by home practice, or go away to learn, 
as the best have learned, in Saffo’s independent style.” 

She is free now. Flitters the butterfly, the whilom caged linnet, 
the pet of the great (and huge) Herr Grolleiiicht, whom crowds of 
musical patrons would have been glad to pay and patronize at his 
recommendation, especially now she did not need patronage. How 
is it the joys of liberty are newer so sweet to taste as to write about? 

“ Is the much-vaunted liberty nothing but a huge gas-bag?” 
thinks Flitters. 

In practice, it comes to being free to do for yourself all those 
things that you can get nobody else to do for you. You are at 
liberty to get into pits and ditches, with nobody prepared to rub 
you down after you have struggled out of them. Flitters’s thoughts 
took some such twist as this, and then they flew to the bosom of her 
family, “ out Tollington Park way;” yea, out a good many stations 
off along the Midland line. When they, the doting family, wel- 
comed the star of their hope so warmly, could she chill their ardor 
and their faith by proposing to come with her piano and her trunk 
of music, and perform for them gratis her whole repertoire, from 
aubade to serenade; and repeat this enjoyment daily, till all their 
hairs were gray, or torn out? Would this satisfy their love of art? 
Should she let her charity begin at home? would they like to receive 
it? would it be well to pauperize them thus — by becoming a hidden 
light,'a musician inconnue ? It is far from ‘ ‘ out Tollington Park way ” 
to abodes of bliss, and the best of everything, at the West End. Out of 
sight, out of mind: the chances were, that at the point H. produced 
beyond the point T. P., Little Flitters might be forgotten among the 
crowd of nearer aspirants to create bliss, and the best of everything, 
for love and money; and so she might remain an unregistered star . 
upon their hands, a lost Pleiad, the representative of what might 
have been. Sorrow’s triple tiara of sorrow is to think that, had 
one acted otherwise, things might otherwise have been. I should 
feel for thee, my pensive Flitters, did I not know that thou wouldst 
take thy lot bravely in thine own nimble hands, clothe thyself in 
smiles and the becoming black and pink dress, and, armed with 
pluck and a certifleate from Herr Grollenicht, go forth and boldly ' 
claim from the lovers of art what will pay for thy tiny second-floor 
abode, and the “ penny Wellington,” the chief of thy choice, and 
they will not refuse thee — with Herr Grollenicht’s certificate in thy 
hands. 


18 


ADRIAK BRIGHT. 


386 

A^es, Flitters is pensive. Althougli slie is free, and although she 
has so wisely refused the philosopher’s offer to endow her with all 
his worldly goods — including his multifarious projects, which are 
the wrappings of his heart— and a life-interest in the Turner 
pictures; and though she had so bravely accepted a proud inde- 
pendence, rather than hearty, honest Tom Esdaile’s offer of mar- 
riage, she is not in the highest of spirits. 

Little Flitters had never dreamed that Walter Carron was rich, 
or, rather, that he had left her what would make her rich. For he 
had been a working man as she was a working woman, and she sup- 
posed that when the work ceased, the money w'ould cease too. The 
lately finished plates represented no value to Flitters. It was not 
until the valuer and the publisher came to her with accounts prepared 
for probate of the will that she perceived that this was permanent 
wealth ; that these publications made an income that existed not 
before, such as Carron never had ; and his former copyrights were 
hers as well. But it came gradually, and was no golden shower 
fountained down upon her all at once. Flitters found winding up 
affairs a long job. She got no money for some time. Her ex- 
penses, too, were greater than they wt*re up-stairs, so that she was, 
for the moment, as poor, or poorer, than before. No great capital- 
ist can ever realize just when he wants to, and Flitters was not ex- 
empt from the lot of other capitalists. So far she only felt the bur- 
den and importance of her income, not the comfort of it. 

She rose and shook the dust out of her thoughts. 

“ The one crop it does not pay to cultivate is Melancholy,” she 
said to herself. “ Ilnless it be of that tuneful sort for which music 
publishers give good prices; rubbish written for the young, who 
think it fine to feel old and gloomy, like — their betters. Youth 
always cottons to Tragedy. I will not mope, I — I rather think I 
will do something desperate. I will go and see Hermione, and — 
give her a lesson in thorougli-bass. ‘ Now tread me a measure, a 
desperate measure,’ said Vouiig Lochinvar. No, I will consult her 
about my ball ! A. ball, ay, a ball. Now I have done a good spell 
of work I want to dance.” 

Life to a young girl means more than livelihood, more than study. 
To keep the youth still strong within the soul, and in the body too, 
for that matter, there must be the Panem et Circenses, that Juvenal 
tells of ; bread and games — not bread without the games. ‘ ‘ First earn 
and then enjoy,” says Goethe. And Flitters needed the games. 
She had been hard taxed with work, and latterly with self-denial; 
for it had cost her something to increase, by these twice, her chances 
of becoming an old maid. She had had the excitement of work, 
and of proud refusal; her healthy, well-balanced, though tiny frame 
now needed the excitement of pleasure, of motion, and of mirth. 

And Hermione was the one to whom Flitters most cared to go 
now at the time her independent spirit needed a tonic — Hermione, 
who had herself known trouble. Hermione who could talk of — 
some one she had known — and could, and often did, gently reproach 
her and reprove her for the sins of pride and hard-heartedness; and 
somehow, it was pleasant to be thus reproved. We don’t like our 
sacrifices to be made light of, and speedily forgotten. Why should 
not Flitters feel a gentle satisfaction at having to fight her battles 


ADEIAX BRIGHT. 


887 

over again, and hearing mercy asked for a prostrate foe. Poor Tom 
Esdaile, would nobody intervene for him? for him, who had never 
feared an ugly name being applied on such occasions to liiraselL 
Yes, there was one who would plead his cause; and somehow 
Flitters, in her own despite, and although she was positivel}^ deter- 
mined to have and keep her own way in this matter, yet liked hav- 
ing a chat with Hermoine; more even than with her own family on 
the Midland line. 

“ Now I have spent all my money I mean to give a ball,” said 
Flitters to her friend. 

Herraione had thought her crazy once before, and this confirmed it. 

“ No money, Daisy; then how can j"ou give a ball?” 

“ It is just the time when one should dance, if only to save the 
expense of firing. Dancing bears on the great smoke-abatement 
question.” 

“ Ah, I see you have reconsidered your verdict, and are going to 
ask us to dance at your wedding.” 

Flitters shook her head with immense decision. 

“ Don’t attribute double motives to me who am all simplicity. I 
mean only this : dancing is the cheapest pleasure one can have, be- 
cause, as Saffo told us, one makes it for one’s self.” 

“ But a party always costs a great deal,” said Hermione; “ and a 
ball — oh! think of the supper.” 

Hermione was beginning to think much of ways and means, now 
that Adrian had taken a new house, with a studio attached to it, 
which they were busy fitting up and furnishing. 

“The food should never be the entertainment for young people; 
only for old folks and babies, who both want their bottles, poor dears.” 

“ That is true,” said Hermione, musing. 

“ After a course of parties I get to loathe party-supper food,” 
said Flitters. 

“ Mamma told me that at Almack’s they only had tea and bread- 
and-butter,” said Hermione, who really wished to help her to think. 

“ I have just half a crown left to spend on a gala,” said Flitters; 
“I ought lobe able to stand a dance out of that. And I verily 
believe Mrs. Smith’s reception don’t cost more. The stale cake, a 
shilling one when it was new; second-hand, as she had it, cost nine- 
pence. A bottle of wine, say one shilling, or less — if you return 
the empty bottle.” 

“Oh, Daisy.” 

“Oh! it comes to that, when one has qualified the claret into 
claret-cup with a twopenny bottle of soda-water, and flavored it 
Avith pencil-cuttings; the wine average comes to that, and we drank 
only one bottle of the mixture.” 

“ There were tea and coffee, I suppose.” 

Flitters was in a slashing mood. 

“ The tea was an infusion of our best Beechong, at one shilling 
and fourpence the pound ; two ounces used for the party. Coffee, 
with the proper proportion of chickory to enrich it. is done for 
elevenpence the pound, stores’ price; perhaps two-pennyworth of 
the beverage is used. Here it is on paper. Cake nincpence, wdne 
one shilling, tea and coffee fourpence, milk threepence, biscuits two- 
pence,— just half n crown. I do not include hot water, sixpence, 


ADKIASr BRIGHT, 


388 

as they do at Kew and Greenwich, because that would be vulgar, 
nor stationery, postage, and gas, because these are not actually part 
of the entertainment.” 

Hermoine laughed, although she was shocked. “ Your calcula- 
tion is clear and close as that of a great financier. Such talent for 
business as yours must command success in any enterprise.” 

“Your remarks are encouraging,” said Flitters; “ 1 will at once 
issue cards for my ball. Dancing, with P.B.Y.M. in the corner.” 

“ Is that ll.S.V.P. in another language, Daisy?” 

“That is ‘Please bring your mug,’ ” said Flitters; “I really 
must ask them to bring their mugs, as my housekeeping plant is in- 
complete. My thimble is my only piece of plate. They will bring 
spoons without my mentioning it.” 

“ Where do you mean to hold your party?” 

“ Miss Flitters ‘ at home,’ to be sure. They will lend me an empty 
room for the supper, if supper it can be called, bread-and butter cut 
handsomely thick; none of those commonplace, skimpy, wafer-like 
morsels; butfine, noble, prize bread-and-butter, fitfor Yorkshiremen 
— oh, no, 1 did not mean that.” 

Hermioue smiled. 

“ But you won’t like dancing in that house so scon after poor 
Walter Carron’s death.” Flitters looked sad. “ Kow, I have a 
proposal to make. You shall hold your party here in our fine new 
studio, and you can use the second room for your supper. Not a 
word of objection, or — wc won’t come to the ball.” 

“ You darling, you are too good,” Flitters gushed forth, in many 
words and hugs and kisses. “ But you’ll let it be altogether my 
party, won’t you ? and j’^ou’ll do nothing for me but lend the room, 
and the gas, and your sweet presence. You’ll promise me that; not 
a thing of yours, not even a mug or spoon.” 

“ Well, 1 promise,” Hermione said it reluctantly. 

“ And vow?” 

“ And vow.” 

“ Because I want to try a notion of my own, and also to see if 
dear old Saffo’s theories of Spartan simplicity can be made to work 
in the nineteenth century.” 

“ Dear old Saflio, 1 wish she were here to enjoy the fun,” said 
Hermione. 

Flitters was right. Now was the time to uive a ball. AVhere 
there is nothing, the world and the devil lose their due. Not having 
anything to spare for fashion, she and her friends could elaborate 
fun and invention into mirth, which should put more gi;;dness into 
their hearts than mixed biscuits could do, and wines, never kissed 
by the sun of Spain, but blended in an underground laboratory 
smelling like a drug-store. 

To those not purblind to all but sophistry, the joyousness (what 
the Freuch^call gaiete) of the young, with sobriety, color, 
movement,'' freedom, clear conscience, music, light, enjoyment of 
one’s owm powers and person, are excitement enough,— with snow- 
cooled water. But one needs the carelessness, as of children, with 
freedom from fear of public opinion, to fill up the enjoyment; one 
must be free of one’s self, which is true liberty of the subject, and 
able to like a thing because it is nice, not because some one else 


ADRTAJq' BRIGHT. 


389 

thinks it proper. One should be too catholic to be fastidious. En- 
glishmen are always in bonds to themselves and others; the rich in 
fetters of gold, the poor in fetters of work or;;drink. They have no 
unpremeditated happiness, for they are never ready to take hold of 
pleasure as it flies; nor open-hearted enough — that is to say, not 
cultured enough — to recognize it. No unpaid-for amusement is 
possible, because mirth floats not in the air for them. They cannot 
conscientiously eujoy their pleasure, unless they are laboring very 
hard about it; and then they labor as hard about making believe to 
enjoy it. Ah, for the song, the dance, the unpremeditated dance, 
and clatter of castanets! The Andalusians are not fatigued, worn- 
oul, nor weary with their emotions, for these are of a pleasurable 
sort; and fresh air strengthens their bodies, and sleep restores all 
their vigor. These are refreshments enough for them, whose 
“ pleasures comes easily as the light.” 

Hodge in his beery jollification, enjoys no more than they; and 
he loses the Figaro piquancy, the Leporelio buoyancy withal. The 
millionaire is dj’^speptic or gouty, so his pleasures do not count at all. 

” Will you let me ask one guest, Daisy,” said Ilermione; ‘‘ just 
one, and then 1 will keep my promise not to interfere in your pro- 
ceedings?” 

‘‘ Ask everybody you like, you dear thing, unless indeed I have 
asked them all before. Here is my list; I wanted us to be about 
twenty, but you may make it forty, or fifty, if you will.” 

Hermione took the list and read, herself and Adrian first, then 
Mr. and Mrs. Bright, Tom and ’Rella, Dick, Jack and May, 
Demetrius Corry the blind boy, and his sister Eulalia, Augusta ami 
Blanche Smith, Linda Fraser, Mr. Louduu the musician — and meteor 
of Saffo’s party — two Miss Golightlys, and young Timothy. These, 
with Flitters herself, made nineteen. Ilermione wrote an invitation 
to a twentieth. It was Mr Esdaile: and then she feared she had 
been indiscreet. But, on consideration, wfliat harm could she do? 
he would come as her guest. He accepted the invitation by return 
ot^post. So Flitters gave her party after all; but she did it, as she 
arranged all the rest of her life, in a way peculiar to herself, and so 
as to extract the utmost possible pleasure from the least possible 
material. Other people try to do this too: perhaps the chief differ- 
ence lies in what people call pleasure. 

She prepared thick slices of brown bread and butter for twenty 
people; and a friend, whose name did not transpire, sent her some 
barrels of oysters. She had flasks of oil and vinegar, and salt and 
pepper in sea-weeded cockle-shells. “Mermaids’ refreshments,” 
she called it all. She kept to her plan of asking people to bring 
their own mugs, and she supplied them with tea and coffee on arriv- 
ing, and with lemonade during the dancing; and bunches of raisins, 
which she called “ dry sherry. ” She recommended this. Ilermione 
brought out her store of quaint, artistic glass, the better to relish the 
Chablis, of which Adrian insisted on adding several long-necked 
flasks, to be taken with the oysters. 

Everybody seemed to take it into their heads that this was to be a 
dancing picnic, and that each one should bring a dish to add to the 
feast. Flitters consulted with Hermione ns to what should be done 
about these extras, wdiich would alter the character of the entertain- 


ADHIAN' BRIGHT. 


390 

ment altogether; and at length the two friends consented to this 
enlargement of their plan, on condition that the dish might be of 
•whatever was perfectly simple, wholesome, and could be eaten in the 
fingers: for Flitters’s idea in having the (oysters and) bread-and- 
butter was, that no knives, forks, or plates would be required. 

Hermione agreed with Flitters, that as twenty dishes would more 
than feed forty people, it would be a good idea that each guest 
should invite a poor person of his, or her, acquaintance, to come at 
nine o’clock and feast upon the remainder, in the great paved studio 
beyond the second studio, or modeling- room, a much finer place 
than the old studio in Welbeck Street, which \vas only what Flitters 
called “ a converted coach-house.” 

I have once before given a letter of Mrs. Bright’s, and I cannot 
do better than transcribe that part of her letter to Saffo which relates 
to this party. She began by telling Saffo tlie wonders her principles 
had worked in the imlikeliest of subjects, and wishing that Saffo 
could have seen the hearty enjoyment produced by them. Salfo 
would indeed have relished it, and her absence was the only short- 
coming in the ball. 

This is a part of Mrs. Bright’s letter: 

‘‘ The party met punctually at six o’clock, and fell to dancing di- 
rectly after their tea, which I served out to them ‘ in their own 
mugs.’ You should have heard them laugh. Most of the party 
knew each other, and the rest soon seemed as if they had known 
each other for years. Hermione’s piano had been wheeled into the 
studio, and she also played her guitar. They all played, or impro- 
vised some sort of music, and sometimes they danced to the chorus 
of their own voices. As I paired off with poor Demetrius Corry ” 
(the blind boy) ” as a non -dancer, I was able to keep the music going 
briskly for them; but they would insist on helping me with most of 
it. Augustus Smith played the flute, and his sister brought her con- 
certina, and they played the waltz ‘ Dying Doves ’ divinely. Eulalia 
Corry took her castanets. Young Timothy played no instrument, 
but he was energetic indancinsr and singing, and our Tom was inval- 
uable with his” Duck-in-Thunder ” waltzes on the corner, to wdiich 
the distance of the third studio lent the necessary enchantment. 

” But the musinian-in-chief was the blind boyq brother to ’Bella’s 
friend, that lovely Eulalia Corry, who always reminds me of an 
Eastern girl, slender, tall, and graceful as one of her own minarets, 
beautiful as a hoiiri. These two have been sitting to me lately for 
my Andalusian picture.” 

(Demetrius Corry shared every gift of beauty with his sister ex- 
cept the dark, lustrous eyes; his were the sad, blind eyes, but even 
with these shut windows genius itself dwelt in his splendid face, and 
his every word bore the stamp of originality and soul.) ” He was 
the life of the party, though he could not danoe a step; he was so 
full of invention and resource, ’Bella and our May hung enraptured 
on his words. At times he would make them waltz to his violin in 
a way, as ’Bella called it, suited ‘ to dyingpoets, or stricken swans;’ 
and then he would stir them up to meenad i■^enz5^ 

” ‘ Dance more madl}^’ he would say, as he plied me with the 
castanets, and made ’Bella shake the tambourine wildly in the dance. 

“‘Give me the marrow-bones and cleavers,’ said Mr. Loudun, 


ADRIAN- BRIGHT, 


391 

who had played second fiddle (figuratively) long enough.” (Mr, 
Loudun was the vocal skyrocket of Sallo’s party\) “ ‘ I mean the 
shovel and tongs.’ None forthcoming. ‘ Ah, a young housekeeper. 
I forgot, and apologize. You’ll be fully fitted up in time.’ 

” ‘ What! with fire-irons? Ne^er,’ shrieked Day Flitters. 

” ‘ What’s the matter now?’ 

” ‘ Fancy any of the Bright family with fire-irons. What would 
Saffo say?’ 

“ ‘ Against the rules, eh?’ 

” ‘ Against all principle. We all belong to the Smoke Abatement 
League.’ 

“ • Ok, hang all principles! what do you do when you want an 
orchestra?’ ’ 

“ He went down-stairs and borrowed the instruments, and tauglit 
me how to play them. He brought with him likewise, as spoil, a 
bell, a tea-tray, and two metal dish-covers, to clash as cymbals. He 
took his turn in the foreground now. He paid no attention to the 
written law, ^.c., the card of the dances hanging from the hand of 
the plaster cast of our Bobby as Puck. He didn’t mind whose part- 
ner he took — he helped himself; and, in his skillful hands, every- 
thing helped out color, liveliness, and action, Eulalia Corry 
thought him radiant as a sun-god; indeed, he seemed to model him- 
self on Adrian’s best statues. He whirled round like mad, and 
stirred the fire he had created into a blaze. He sang the tune (T was 
profanely reminded of a fiery Covenanter giving out the psalm), and 
clapped his hands while lie balanced his partner with his arm 
tbreadefl through hers, and then rushed into the melee. It was a 
Sabbat dance of wild spirits, ora kind of harmless saturnalia; a 
thorough enjoyment of youth and mascular aestheticism. But danc- 
ing such as Demetrius Corry and Mr. Loudun inaugurated could 
not last long; there must be a lull, if onl}'^ to draw breath. It made 
even us musicians gasp.” And in that lull — Mrs. Bright did not 
mention this— but, as the dance music suddenly stopped, a cleai-, 
manly young voice was heard, saying, “Call me John, dear;” a 
touch of sweetness at which the rest of the party madly laughed. 
It was young Jack Bright, dancing with — well, it is no affair of 
ours, it was an advance for a young hobbadehoy, whose every 
tenth word is usually a clumsiness, or a slight offense. 

‘‘ But how enduriugly pleasant it was, a dance to be an excite- 
ment forever; and ah! how different from what Day Flitters calls 
‘ half-crown parties at the Smiths,’ wdiich make one yawn even in 
the recollection. A pianissimo succeeded, and we could hear our- 
selves talk. I put by my instrument, the tongs, and took up a 
scarf which I was working in colors for Herrnione, and had nearly 
finished. Eulalia Corry played a merry whirl on the guitar. She 
plays very well; her runs and appoggiaturi are brilliant as a Span- 
iard’s fandango, and lift the feet as delightfully. The elegant Au- 
gustus Smith twirled smoothly, as if he had been timber sluck in a 
lathe. As for young Timothy, with one of the ]\liss Golightlys, as 
Day said, ‘ He hopped round the room like a dear little cork. To 
be sure,’ she added, ‘ he has a habit of playing a pretty little toon 
with his fingers on, your back when he dances with you.’ 

” 1 w'as greatly tickled at seeing our Jack go up a fourth time to 


ADRIA^q* BRIGHT. 


393 

Mary Gollghtly, and say, * Will you dauoe with me?* ‘ With pleas- 
ure/ she said, which was rather good-natured to a boy not yet even 
in charity tails. ‘ Oh, no, I forgot,’ said he, ‘ we mustn’t we’ve 
danced together three times already!’ What would Mrs. Grimdy 
have said!’’ 1 suppose Mrs. Bright had not heard the sweet request 
alluded to above “But what interested me most of all, I think, 
was to see Hermione’s guest, the huge Ursa Major of my Yorkshire 
travels! to see him try to hide his bulky form in doorways, or any- 
where where he could peep at Day Flitters, and then at last sum- 
mon up courage to ask her to dance, and take her actually away 
from our Tom, whose light, fantastic toe was already poised to be- 
gin. Had it not been one of our own boys, 1 don’t know what we 
should have done. As it was, Tom was muttering, ‘ It was very 
rude of her to throw me over,’ and, ‘ I don’t want him to manage 
my partners for me,’ when Hermione, who had watched the whole 
transaction, took him aside, and salved his dignity. 

“ * Well, I don’t mind,’ I heard him say, as he and Hermione 
twirled by me in the dance, ‘ as she made such a lot of apologies 
and talk about it.’ 

“ Hermione whispered, 

“ ‘ I’ll explain it to you thoroughly some morning, when we are 
by ourselves. ’ My own belief is, that there is what the boys call 
‘ something up ’ here, and that Hermione is very nearly in the se- 
cret. Mr. Esdaile did nol waltz with Day Flitters; indeed, I could 
as soon fancy the Colossus of Rhodes waltzing. We missed the 
couple for a time. They said something about measuring him 
against the colossal Milo in the second studio. By and by they took 
TIermione’s embroidered scarf from me, and the young men held it 
up by the four corners as a canopy, while they all danced ‘ the 
Triumph ’ beneath it. It was belter than a picture to see these 
bright-eyed, blooming girls, some of them so elegantly grown, so 
full of life and agile grace, emerge from the canopy between the 
men’s upraised arms, the well arched feet moving so lightly and 
elaitically along. I could not resist making a sketch of that dance 
as I sat in my snug corner in the deep alcove, and watched the 
glowing faces of the dancers (such a contrast to the silent statues all 
around), as the troop was led by our beautifully fair Hermione; and 
Eulalia Corry, with her dark eyes and Andalusian grace; followed 
closely by the fair Blanche 8mith, and Linda, who looked splendid, 
regal in her beauty and her crimson dress. The Miss Golightlys, 
in zephjT bhie, came next, and last of all Day Flitters led up our 
pretty little ’Rella. Y'ou have nev^er seen Daisy as she looked to- 
night in the eternal black and pink, of course, only that Hermione 
had taken off the pink trimming and the sash because of the mourn- 
ing for poor Mr. Carron; and she had trimmed it instead with 
wreaths of real white and purple violets, and woven her a viclet 
crown. Y"ou cannot think how pretty she looked; her bright eyes 
looked like stars, her face was one perpetual smile. Adrian might 
well have taken her for a model of happiness. All 1 missed was 
my Safifo. I did miss her beaming face among the dancers. Never 
mind, my Saffo; we will have another festival ourselves some day; 
we will find, or make, the occasion. My Sjiffo shall wear a w’reath 
of violets too. Young Corry and Mr. Loudun organized a very 


ADRTAK BRIGHT. 393 

pretty ballet, inventing tvith every round of the music some new 
.dance or figure. 

“ Soon after eight o’clock the whole orchestra tuned itself ami 
sounded for supper. It was well-timed. Young people want real 
food to feed artistic emotions and the fine arts, even the fine art of 
looking beautiful. 

“ Day Flitters led the way to the second studio, where a trestled 
table supported all the twenty dishes, brought by the guests, on a 
rose-colored table-cloth. Abunrlance of oysters and bread-and-but- 
ter stood on a large table on the other side of tlie room, and the 
wdne and glasses stood in cupboards, on either side of the recess 
that held the table of twenty dishes. Friol and the boy who waits 
on Adrian in the studio opened the oysters, and Mr. Loudun in- 
stalled himself as chief cook. He twisted a paper cap and borrowed 
the cook’s largest apron. He squeezed the lemons, and tossed the 
lemonade from glass to glass till it foamed. The lemons were 
scattered all about, scenting the room refreshingly, reminding me 
of Spain. 

“ ' Mr. Bright, did you send me the anonymous oysters?’ asked 
Daisy, suddenly. 

“ Your father disclaimed all knowledge of the mollusks. He 
only made a bid for the shells to burn for phosphates. 

“ ‘ Let the secrets of nature remain undisturbed,’ said Adrian, as 
we took our places on two planks set on stout kitchen chairs, that 
were provided for seats, and relished our supper, as we ate it to llie 
soft silent music of the moonlight sonata being played on the bare 
frosted branches, and Adrian’s famous finial, outside. It has been 
put up here, and I miss it sorely, for that finial is engraved on my 
heart. 

“ At nine o’clock the knocker played a solo with variations, and 
the twenty poor people came, whom we had invited (for Day Flit- 
ters particularly requested that we would each give her the pleasure 
of one poor friend’s company). They all assembled pretty punc- 
tually, and vrere admitted into the great outer studio. We each 
took, one of the twenty dishes (of which, by the bye, scarcely any- 
thing had been consumed), and laid them in a row on the long 
modeling bench. The young men served out to the new guests their 
choice of dishes and the young ladies wrapped up the remainder in 
paper parcels for them to take home. This distribution was soon 
made by so many pairs of willing hands, and Adrian sent Friol to 
order a supply of ‘ half-and-half ’ in pewter mugs from the nearest 
public-house, while the boys and children jumped for apples out of 
a hammock. 

“ ‘ If we played a tune, they might have a dance to warm them 
too,’ said Ilermione, and the violin and flute tuned up a cheerful 
polka, to which several couples danced right merrily; and then 
they joined in the chorus of ‘Cheer boys, cheer,’ and ‘ God save 
the Queen ' was sung with loyal spirit by the entire strength of the 
company. 

“ ‘How then, boys,’ cried Adrian, ‘three cheers for Miss Flit- 
ters, and then good-night.’ 

“ They rent the air, but not so hard but what it could be mended 
again, and then dispersed, right well contented to share their supper 
with those at home. Our dancing was renewed with spirit until 


394 


ADRTAK BRIGHT. 


eleven o’clock, the hour for dispersion, and we all, in oiir turn, 
gave three cheers for Miss Flitters. There was some buzzing and 
whispering in a corner, and then Ursa Major came forward and said, 
“ ‘ Ladies and gentlemen, 1 move, as an amendment to tliat last 
toast, three cheers for Mrs. Esdaile.’ He led forward the blushing 
Daisy, and added, ‘ For so, ladies and gentlemen, she has kindly 
promised to be.’ 

“ ‘ Three times three cheers for Mrs. Esdaile,’ resounded on all 
sides and ‘ three cheers more for Mr. and Mrs. Esdaile. We wish 
them every joy.’ 

“ This, then, was the secret of onr Daisy’s blooming face and 
brightened eyes. Tom opened his orbs tremendously wide as Her- 
mione looked at him and laughed. I think Tom cried hip, hip, 
hurrah! louder than anybody else, and he forgave on the spot the 
injury he had suffered in the loss of his partner. J^ittle Flitters, I 
must call her so for the last time, came up to Hermione and me for 
our kiss of congratulation, and whispered, 

“ ‘ To think that little I, with a waist just an octave round, should 
marry a great splendid hippopotamus like that! It is wonderful.’ 

“ Friol, who was there to w’ait, noticed that Miss Flits had all the 
lime ‘ long partners.’ He did not really mean tall partners, but that 
she danced the whole evening long, 

“ Good-night, my darling, Saffo. ISow that I have given you a 
full, true, and complete account of Day Flitters’s eventful evening 
party, I can wuite nothing more than that 1 am, as always, 

“ Your loving mother, “ Lucinda Bright.” 


CHAPTER LII. 

“Homer’s Epos, it is remarked, is like bas-relief sculpture; it does not eon- 
»;lude, but merely ceases.’’— Carlyle. 

It is a bad fire that brings no purification with it. Adrian 
JBright was obliged to take a new studio, and he took care to have 
ft at home this time, choose a house suitable for a sculptor, and 
using, with Hermione’s concurrence, the wdiole extensive ground- 
door for his studio range. It should be a real home this time, 
cN’ithout Louis Quinze scenery and ornaments. They fitted up a 
upare room and a boudoir (for visitors), with the old Rose-du-Barry 
furniture, and the famous fender-stool, in a manner styled very 
chaste and elegant indeed, by the Golightlys and the Smiths, when 
they called after Day Flitters’s party. 

But for the house in general, they said to each other as they 
walked arm-in-arm in the early twilight up and down the empty 
rooms, ” we will let it grow this time, even if we wait to furnish 
the drawing-room till Saffo comes home with all the newest Paris 
fashions in ideas.” So the reception-rooms were able to fulfil their 
mission, and be reception-rooms in reality, to receive the fine stat- 
ues made by Adrian, ar casts of them wiiere these were sold, 
which happened, as Hermione thought, all too quickly; aud among 
the statues were mingled tall, growing plants, and seats grouped 
about promiscuously, and book-shelves placed near windows, where 
one could sit and read, embowered by the plants. Hermione’s 
grand piano stood ^well out in the spacious room, which she filled 


ADRIAN BRIGHT, 


395 


with new and beautiful combinations of sounds as she enjoyed in- 
venting them, and wiili her own beautiful presence, and the joyous 
aspect of friends. These things were not displaced, nor crowded 
out, by upholstery and the commonplace articles which only inter- 
est a lower order of minds. 

Each object, gradually introduced as permanent furniture, 
brought its own fragrance of association with it; but they would not 
furnish for the sake of furnishing, nor fashion their rooms accord- 
ing to the canon of house-maids and upholsterers; limiting them- 
selves within the borders of a conventional cultivation. So they 
were free to grow and flourish, fl'he atmosphere of art should also 
be the atmosphere of home, and in his home an artist should be able 
to enjoy holidays. Peace and tranquillity must impart the sweet- 
ness that tempers, chastens, the fervid outpouring of the artist; be- 
get the temperance that gives it a smoothness. 

I do not pretend to give Adrian Briarht’s (the great sculptor’s) 
whole life. You cannot see the complete man in these pages any 
more than 1 can give you an artist’s proof of his portrait engrav^ed 
by Carron, or any more than a painter can portray at once the 
whole wide landscape. Even it one could put in all one sees, and 
that is not a quarter of the whole, one can only see at one view 
what is contained within an angle of forty-flve degrees. It is even 
more impossible to epitomize fairly a man’s life, of which seventy 
years cannot hold the complexity. I have only sketched in (Uitline, 
not two whole years, but just some few months of Adrian’s life, 
tlie short months when he 'was first heart and soul devoted to Her- 
mione, when li<} passed through love, hope, joy, despair, marriage, 
jealous doubt, and perfect trust. All these feelings have already 
lapsed by, and become soft-silvered clouds, in the moonlight of his 
memory. 

And these few moments can no more give us a perfect image of 
the man, and what time and circumstances have made him, than 
the gathered flower can give, to those who know it not, an idea of 
the tree. Especially is this the case with an artist. We see him 
most completely in his works; for his works are hia life, Ida history, 
and his monument. The hours of peaceful, productive work have 
no other biography. These are his best hours; his dramatic days 
lie reckons as waste time, and these are the only ones that will bo 
recorded in his memoirs. Yet 1 know not in any other man (a.s 
Carlyle said of Shakespeare) “ such calmness of depth; placid, joy 
ous strength; all things imagined in that great soul of his true ai’nl 
clear as in, a tranquil, unfathomable sea.” And lids full, fecund 
spirit was warmed, and diet red, and vivified by his ITermione’e 
tender affection, as is the earth by the glad sun. Over the unfath- 
omable sea of his abundant, ever-thinking soul, swept the light 
breeze of his fair wife’s love, as the music of Ailolian harps, ” soft, 
soft, like a child’s young heart.” 

“ So Carron and the philosopher have both left our Little Flitters 
their money, have they?” said Adrian to his wife, on the morning 
after the ball. 

“ She has the one fortune,” said Hermione, with a amile dimpling 
her face out of character with the Cuma3an Sybil he was sketching 


ADRIAIT BRTGPIT. 


396 

from her, the nymph beloved of Apollo, “ but the other may lapse 
to the Crown even yet; there is no trusting philosophers.” 

” So she makes a fortune by the act of being good,” said Adrian, 
after a busy pause, ” and not by music, which is not her highest 
vocation after all.” 

” Talk of Flitters and she flaps her wings,” said Hermione. recog- 
nizing her characteristic knock, ” four raps and a grace note,” as 
she called it; used as a symbol of her being four feet and a fraction 
high, four feet ten inches actual measure. The door opened — it 
v/as like the bursting of a cork, and Flitters flew in, bubbling over 
with news like the rush of foam throiifli the neck of a fizzing 
bottle. She was well up, warm with gas, et cetera. There w'as 
much kissing and congratulation. 

“Give mo rope and I shall talk, and save you buying the latest 
edition of the News of the World. This is the latest telegram. Linda 
Fraser was privately married this morning to Mr. Prothero- Wilson.” 

‘‘Merciful Zeus!” exclaimed Hermione, lifting her hands high 
above her head, in imitation of Saffo when brought back to the 
great original law of oratory. 

‘‘ And she never said a word about it last eveninsf.” 

” Has she really sunk to that?” said Adrian, pensively. He had 
always admired Linda vastly, disproportionatelj’’, though he had 
never loved her. He once thought hers the strongest female mind 
he knew; probably she gave him to understand that it was so, and 
took care to show him her best points in the best lights. Though 
he had never cared to possess either, he admired her intellect as he 
admired her face; and maybe he was right in his judgment (though 
Flitters always talked of gas-bags), for the strongest mind often 
accompanies the weakest character, such is the tendency of our 
dual structure. Queen Bess to wit, and Francis Bacon, Lord 
^erulam. 

‘‘ Who is he? What is he?” asked Hermione. Ko one seemed 
to know what he did with himself when he was not en edidence be- 
fore Linda, or sketching iniscroscopic sweetnesses in the scenery. 
Linda herself could never quite make out his business. 

‘‘ He is something in the city,” said Flitters, ” a ship-broker, or 
stock-broker, or a bill-broker.” 

” What is his count}'-?” 

‘‘Oh, Wormwood Scrubbs, most likely, 1 should say,” quoth 
flippant Flitters. 

‘‘ If our Christian names are what we shall be known by in 
heaven, as Mr. Fairfax tells us,” said Adrian, ‘‘ fancy the grotesque 
ugliness of surnames used at baptism. Mr. Wilson will be known 
as Prothero.” 

‘‘ It will be heavenly to him to drop the Wilson. His joy would 
be equal to that of Stanley Jones, Howard Tompkins andi others. 
It would be purgatory tome; hut then Flitters is not a pretty name. 
I am glad to change it.” 

It was Christmas-day. The early (one o’clock, or two at latest) 
bird and sausages were eaten, the pudding was worked through for 
the sake of the half-crown hidden in its depths. Bambino thought 
papa was going to turn it all in ‘‘ pospits ” by burning it so long. 
Oh, luscious black pudding, that would have been so ” gallump- 


ADKIAN BRiaHT. 39“^ 

tious ” any day but Christmas-day, when one has already eaten too 
much. 

Fortunately for all, and for the pudding, this was not the year 
when Mr. Bright descended to personally instruct Rosetta in the 
way to make plum-pudding; when he stirred some handfuls of 
porridge into the compound instead of flour, and leavened the whole 
with a jug of beer. This year he only counseled the family to 
avoid tlie pudding, and eat stewed rhubarb exclusively. A dish 
which as it has no name in German, is always ordered as “ diese 
Dinge lang und roth!” as the Scotch talk of “ long kail.” 

The boys were gone for a ” constitutional ” with Uncle Jo, who 
came over to Welbeck Street to escape from Mrs. Nugent, now also 
spending Christmas with Hermione. The servants -svereout; the 
dining-room smelt fragrant with the aroma of coffee, that Mr. 
Bright and Bimbo were busy mixing with “ tickoly.” Mr. Bright 
assured Cinderella that the kitchen fire was doing very nicely. He 
had heaped on a ” prime lot ” of refuse. It smelt aloud. This 
was high day and holiday for Mr. Bright. Augusta, arrayed in all 
the finery she could muster after adorning Bambino with every sash 
and colored necktie in her drawer, was examining her Christmas cards. 

“ 1 can’t think why Mrs. Nugent writes on the backs of her 
Christmas cards, so that one cannot send them on to other friends. 
She seems like a person of sense too.” So lamented the worldly 
little Augusta. She was entirely deficient in sentiment. 

The house at Welbeck Street was really a dull home this Christ- 
mas; they wanted cheering by a bit of news. The Adrian Brights 
had Uncle Jo with them; as well as Mrs. Nugent (who was delighted 
with the elegant pink spare bed-room and boudoir); and Flitters 
and a merry party, and all the young Brights, were going there in 
the evening to romp in the big new studio. 

Linda was married and gone, and the sparkling Safio was in 
Paris, picking out things for the little ones at home from among the 
gay frippery in the booths on the boulevaids. Cinderella says 
everything happens when Saffo is gone, 

” Really it is so, for she goes just as thing are about to happen.” 
They were ripening to happen while she was there, but she, wrapped 
in moonshine, did not perceive it. The warm human light was us a 
dim tallow candle to her electric needs. 

Flitters did not keep the secret of her own engagement long. She 
would have burst with it if she had. She said to herself, 

” Oh, I feel like a gas-bag . I must mount and soar. I can hard- 
ly keep myself down.” She held down her tight skirt tighter, and 
set her pretty little teeth. 

The news of her probably speedy marriage spread though the 
Bright family. Deep was the devising of presents for Daisy. 

” Tom always said it would be so,” said ’Rella, gleefully. 

‘‘Do you mean Tom Esdaile, my future husband?” said Little 
Flitters, proudly drawing herself up. 

” No. our small Tom,” said ’Rella. 

“ 1 say, Daisy,” said May, “ how about your economical dodges 
now? You will have to liaud them over to Saffo for distribution. 
How about your helping nine people off a mutton-chop for dinner? 
He will want a whole one to himself.” 


898 


ADKIAH BRKiHT. 


“Well, he is equal to eight and a half people, and I am half a 
person. He shall have the chop, and I will eat the tip of the tail.” 

“ Here comes Daisy’s belovered,” cried Bimbo, and they all flew 
to nod at the windows; such of them, at least, as were not there be- 
fore. 

“ It’s Miss Flitters’s young man is come to fetch her,’’ said Liza- 
buff, the only one of the servants who was at home. 

The young children were feeding the “ spallows ” when Esdaile 
called. They all received him kindly into the family, for they al- 
ways called Little Flitters a cousin at least. Bobby squared up to 
him and welcomed him as a good match for him at sparring. Friol 
had recommended him to do the “ kique boxe,” but Bobby repre- 
sented the un-Euglishness of this. 

“ 1 would give you this Chri,stmas card for the New Year if it 
weren’t written on at the back,’’ said Augusta, kindly. “ But per- 
haps you won’t mind. We can scratch Mrs. Nugent’s name out. 
It is better than any of these horrid threejience a dozen cards, 
though they are only written on in pencil. This is quite a sixpenny 
one.’’ 

“ You’re a Greuze,’’ said Bambino, approvingly to Mr. Esdaile. 
Mrs. Bright laughed. Esdaile was mystified; but they explained 
that it is when people are in a cood humor they hug Bambino and 
call him a Greuze. He is only called a Mulready when he is 
naughty. Anj-^ one more unlike a Greuze than Tom Esdaile it is 
hardly possible to conceive. 

Daisy was asked to take charge of three hideous antimacassars, 
bought as a Christmas present for Hermione by Bobby and the Pen- 
dragons (with their Christmas-boxes) to adorn her new home. They 
displayed them with great pride. Flitters looked at them shudder- 
ingly for Herraione’s sake. 

“They’ll do for the spare room,’’ said the unsentimental little 
Augusta. (But Hermione kept them as folded treasures, for the sake 
of her dear Bobby and the twins.) 

“ If we had known you were going to be married, we would have 
kept them as wedding presents for you,’’ said the twins, candidly, 
to Flitters. 

“ Oh, gemini,’’ was on Flitters’s lips to utter, but she refrained. 
It behooved her to cultivate the behavior of a matron. 

“ But is not this marriage an end to your dream of fame?” in- 
quired Cinderella, anxiously. “ You will be too prosperous to be 
famous.” 

“ Fat, easy prosperity will not work up at all well for the biog- 
raphy,” said Ma 3 q who valued renowm. “ One must have one's 
trials for the sake of the book. It is not too late. Give him up 
and be famous.” 

“ No, 1 think I will give up having a biography. IhoJigh it will 
be a cruel blow to my family. 1 bid adieu to the idea of celebrity 
and seeing the life of the eminent Flitters in four volumes quarto. 
Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness! I shall be Little 
Flitters no longer.” 

“ Then you won’t be in a hurry to be dead in order that the book 
may be written,” said Bobby, with some satisfaction; and there was 
something cheerful in this view. 


ADRIAN BRIGHT. 


399 


She went away with Mr. Esdaile, looking, as May said, “ Oh! so 
absurdly happy!” 

Mrs. Bright was pained at Linda’s concealment of her marriage 
intentions from her and from her family, who had always been so 
kind to her. 

‘‘ What could she see in that man to make her want to marry 
him?” said the ever-romantic Cinderella. 

‘‘It is not himself, but what he w^as wrapped up in, that she 
cared about,” said Mr. Bright, who reflected, however, with some 
satisfaction that, in time to come, he should have Mr. Prolhero- 
Wilson’s horses to make experiments upon. 

‘‘ Well, I wish her well, said Cinderella, wdth a sigh. ‘‘ But I 
fear she will soon look like a Reynolds— a faded Reynolds.” 

‘‘ In short, girls,” said Bobby, ‘‘you wish her a happy new year, 
and you wish she may get it.” 

‘‘ i rather wondered ti) see her at Daisy’s party,” said ’Rella. 

” I perceive now she went to disarm suspicion of her secret,” 
said May. 

‘‘ Mrs. Samuel Johnson, you are doubtless right,” said Cinderella. 

The truth was, that Linda, oppressed by a sense of failure in all 
she had attempted, now made a holocaust of her whole life. She 
knew nothing of any soul higher than the art student’s, which may 
hold the highest of aspirations, if impelled upward by a yearning 
for truth and beauty; and which may be the mosttrivicl of careers, 
if undertaken in a wrong spirit. 

She, who had despised Herrnione, was now proved to be beneath 
her in many ways, even in that strength of character on which she 
harl so prided herself. 

‘‘ Eas she indeed sunk to this?” echoed Mrs. Bright, with much 
the same meaning as Adrian had when he used the phrase. Mrs. 
Nugent, who had called early at Roehampton to congratulate Linda 
on her rich marriage, marveled to hear them say it; though she 
thought she knew the reasons when she and Linda discovered, to 
tlieir dismay, that the business in the city which brought in the de- 
sirable income, was not that of a share, stock, ship, or bill broker, 
but a pawnbroker’s business of long standing, with a shop, and a 
spout, and all the requisite appurtenances. 

‘‘ So that was why Lord Palairet was so cold to Linda ever after 
that party she gave. He was offended at being asked to meet a 
tradesman,” observed the sagacious Mrs. Nugent, who thought 
Linda had not played her cards well, after all. 

‘‘It was a pity, for Lord Palairet really admired her very much, 
and it would have been a more suitable match.” 

But Mrs. Bright cared little about the pawnbrokery business, 
when she had heard of it. She knew, as well as other sensible peo- 
ple do, that a man cannot always choose the sources whence he is 
to derive his income. But it was his mean little soul that she de- 
spised, his affected, finical ways, that she found so tiresome, and his 
carping criticism, which she too feared would be likely to worry 
Linda into the condition of a faded portrait by Sir Joshua, the 
wreck of what once was beautiful; and her kind heart was sorry 
that her niece had so chosen. Bobby resolved, in his unconverted 
little mind, henceforth to call Linda Wilson his aunt. 


400 


Ar'.> IAN BRIGHT. 


“ 'Why?” asked the more innocent Arthur. 

‘‘Because she has married my uncle, of course.” The simple 
divinity student was no wiser than before. 

Daisy Flitters soon married, from Hermione’s house, and M 
and Mrs. Esdaile went to Yorkshire, to live happily ever after, an 
to make preparations for anotlnr wedding, fron) ilieir house. 

George Raby married Miss Esdaile, and the crochet counterpan 
became an heirloom at Rahy Hall, and figured with disiinction 
among all the rest of the trophies of female sway in that patriarchal 
mansion. 

‘‘ Salfo is eoing to have a life of single blessedness,” said Bam- 
bino, wdien her legion of admirers questioned him about the doings 
of his favorite sister. 

” And she well deserves it,” is the observation of all who kaovr 
her; a grand jury, thus uttering unanimously their verdict with 
various shades of meaning. 


THE END. 




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20 Within an Inch of His JJfe. By Emile 

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22 David Copperfield. Dickens. Vol. I.. 20 

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41 Oliver Twist. By Cliarles Dickens.. . . 

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65 Back to the Old Home. By M. C. Hay 10 

66 The Romance of a Poor Young Man. 

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74 AnroraFloyd. B.y MissM. PL Braddon 20 

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76 Wife in Name Only. By the Author of 

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77 A Tale of Tn o Cities. By Dickens 20 

78 Madcap Violet. B.y William Black... 20 
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